


unfinished business

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 12:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 130,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: A collection of unfinished works.





	1. Yosemite

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure if there'd be interest in this, but I asked my tumblr followers a while back if they'd be interested in me posting the various pieces I began writing, got fairly far into, but never finished, and people seemed enthused, so here they are. These pieces are unfinished and unedited, and most of them I haven't even reread since they were abandoned, which in all cases is literal years, so sorry in advance for any dumb shit that's in there. I'll be posting them from oldest to newest, and I'm happy to answer any questions on the pieces, but please don't leave comments asking me to finish them: it's not gonna happen! These chapters WILL end abruptly, and you WILL be annoyed, so please read at your own risk. I only posted pieces that were over 15k words or so in length - I've got plenty of incomplete ficlets that only have a couple hundred or thousand words that would be too brief to post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 14k
> 
> This is my oldest incomplete fic, and one of my oldest pieces in general. I did post it on tumblr at one point, but I had only a couple hundred followers at that point I think, so I'm not sure how many of people have seen this one. For reference, I assigned all of my fics a number as I was working on them - not necessarily chronologically, because I finished some newer fics before some of the older ones, but anyway, this one was #9. To put that in perspective, "Alive" was #4, and "The Wolf That Heard Crying" was #12, so this is from around that time. 
> 
> I think I stopped this one because I was more interested in other stuff I was working on, and I didn't really know how to end it.

"Bolinski!"

Stiles sighed at the sound of Finstock's voice crackling over the radio. He picked up the handset, wincing as the Jeep bounced over a pothole, her old frame creaking in protest. "What's up?"

"Get your ass back to the station. You've got a visitor."

"Aw, come on," Stiles groaned. "I just finished my shift, dude!"

"I don't care!" Finstock barked.

Stiles hooked the handheld back onto the dash, muttering under his breath, and performed an illegal three-point turn in the middle of the dirt road. He pulled up in front of the North Central lead station of the Department of Fish and Wildlife ten minutes later and clambered out of the Jeep, slamming the door shut behind him. He'd just spent three weeks in Northern California helping with the wildfires they'd been plagued with, and he just wanted to sleep. He hadn’t slept in a real bed in two weeks, just cots in shelters and, on a few nights, the hard ground. His plans for the evening were to sleep, order pizza, and take a bath – in that order.

Finstock, the head warden, stood in the lobby with a tall young man Stiles didn't recognize. Stiles didn’t understand how Bobby Finstock had made it far as he had. The man was half psychotic – Stiles suspected he might be bipolar – and the last time they’d spent any time in the woods together, Finstock had almost chopped off his own foot with an axe. Why anyone would want him in charge of the station was beyond him.

"Bolinski!" the warden bellowed – unnecessarily, since Stiles was only about ten feet away. He gestured at the young man standing next to him. "Danny – what was your last name?"

"Mahealani," the young man supplied helpfully. He looked a little weary, like people always did after talking to Finstock for too long.

"Right," said Finstock, who had a penchant for forgetting people’s names. Stiles had been working for him for three years – the man signed his paycheck every week, and he still couldn’t remember Stiles’ last name. "Danny's a ranger with the Forest Service. You want to tell Bolinski what you've been telling me?"

"Uh, yeah." Danny shrugged, turning to give Stiles a faint smile. "Uh - Bolinski?" He held out a hand.

Stiles shook it, casting Finstock a baleful look when he said, "Stiles Stilinski. What's going on?"

"I'm stationed in Toiyabe, in the Hoover Wilderness area over by Yosemite," Danny explained, crossing his arms over his chest. "We've been getting reports of an undocumented wolf pack in the forest."

"Wolves?" Stiles repeated, frowning. "There are no wolves in California - none in Nevada either."

"I know," Danny nodded. "But we had sightings in Yosemite last week, and now it looks like they've moved to Toiyabe."

"Okay," Stiles said, rubbing a hand over his face. "So what do you need from me?"

Danny nodded over at Finstock. "I'm told you're the only warden in the area with experience with wolves. We were hoping you could come in and make contact. It sounds like at least one of them is injured."

"We should tag them if we can," Finstock added. "People are going to get concerned if wolves are back in the state, especially that close to Yosemite."

"You want me to figure out if they're dangerous, you mean," said Stiles.

Finstock rolled his eyes. "They're wolves - of course they're dangerous, you knucklehead. We need to be able to track them in case they get closer to human populations."

"I'm not an expert," Stiles pointed out. He'd spent three months at a wolf sanctuary in Montana while he was in college. Not exactly tons of experience.

"Better than nothing," Danny said with a shrug. "Otherwise it's a weeklong wait for some guy in Idaho, and if one of them is injured we'd rather not drag our feet. At least you're familiar with the area."

"All right," Stiles sighed. "When do you want me?"

"Tomorrow?" Danny asked cautiously. "We're arranging a chopper to fly you in - it looks like the pack's headed into some territory beyond the trails, but I can meet you here and drive you over to the park."

"Cool, fine," Stiles agreed tiredly. “See you around nine?”

Danny agreed and Stiles retreated to the Jeep before Finstock could make him do anything else. He drove home in silence, making a packing list in his head. Most of his camping stuff was already in the back of the Jeep, but he’d have to pare it down. He’d be out in the woods for four or five days at the very least, depending on how long it took him to get close to the pack. Stiles groaned out loud. He was so fucking sick of camping. And now wolves? He ran a hand through his hair. Where the hell had they come from?

Home was a rough cabin on state land up past Tahoe City. The electricity usually went out if the winds got over thirty miles an hour, and he had to use his phone as a tether because you couldn’t get internet out there, but it was comfortable and – more importantly – free. It wasn’t that far from the station, which also sat on state land, and the Jeep could handle the rough roads pretty well, even in the winter. Right now the road was mostly muddy slush, but the air was clear and cold – much better than the smoky air he’d been breathing up north. He was still blowing ash out of his nose.

Inside, Stiles cast a sad glance at his bed before settling down in front of his computer, logging on to the California Department of Fish and Wildlife’s network. He slogged through pages of incident reports before spotting them – reports of wolf sightings. He tracked them back through the past few weeks, following the sightings as they retreated further and further north, almost up to where he’d been for the past month. Stiles frowned at the screen because after three weeks, the sightings stopped. It didn’t make sense; if the pack had crossed from another state, there’d be more sightings, but the first sighting was up near Eureka, not even close to state lines.

Stiles supposed that a lone, untagged wolf might be able to live in the wilds without being noticed, but there was no way this pack – and there were at least three of them, according to the reports – would be able to survive without being seen. Stiles sighed, closing his laptop and shoving away from his desk. He fell into bed without even taking his clothes off, asleep before he hit the sheets.

-

When Stiles woke up it was four in the morning and he felt better than he had in a long time. It was far too late to order out so he shoved a frozen pizza in the oven and went to clean three weeks of soot out of his hair. Thirty minutes later, feeling refreshed and munching on a slice of pizza, he was back on the computer, refreshing his knowledge of wolf behavior. Eventually he switched over to a map of the Hoover Wilderness, examining the valleys and lakes contained therein, identifying potential areas the wolves might lurk in.

Around six he started packing, hiking back and forth between his Jeep and the cabin, loading his hiking bag with everything he’d need for a days-long journey into the woods. He left space in the top of the bag – he’d have to grab satellite collars at work and borrow a tranq gun from Finstock. Stiles fretted a moment before strapping the rifle his dad had given him a few Christmases back to his bag. Better be safe than sorry – and his dad would feel better knowing he had it. Speaking of, Stiles pulled out his phone. It was early, but his dad got up at five every morning. He’d answer, and he did.

“Everything all right?”

Stiles rolled his eyes; this was how his father started every telephone conversation they had before noon. Like Stiles wasn’t capable of getting himself out of bed for anything other than an emergency. Pfft.

“Everything’s fine, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading out for a few days.”

“Oh?” his father asked curiously. “Where are you off to? They sending you to fight fires again?”

“No,” Stiles sighed in relief. “They’re saying there’s a wolf pack in Toiyabe. I’m heading down there today.”

“Wolves?” his dad repeated. “Did you—”

“I’ve got the gun,” Stiles assured him. “I’ll be fine – I just wanted you to know in case you call and I don’t pick up. I don’t think there’s service out there.”

“You’ll be lucky if you get radio signal in the valleys,” his father told him. “Make sure you watch the clouds. Storms can move in fast in those mountains.”

“I know,” Stiles said exasperatedly. “This ain’t my first rodeo, Dad.”

“Just looking out for you,” his father replied mildly. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Stiles sighed. “Talk to you in a few days. Might be longer than a week.”

“All right. Love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

At eight, Stiles put his bag in the back of the Jeep and headed for the station. It was quiet this early in the morning – Finstock wasn’t even there yet, and he was weirdly enthusiastic about early mornings. Stiles found the satellite collars shoved into a disused cupboard and dithered around how many he should take. One or two would be enough; a pack of only three or four wolves was unlikely to split. He didn’t need a collar on each one.

Danny stood in the lobby when Stiles emerged from the back offices, collars in hand. “Morning,” Stiles said to him. “Has Finstock come through?”

“Five minutes ago,” Danny replied, nodding toward the staff kitchen. Stiles could hear someone clanking around in there.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“Yes,” Danny accepted gratefully. Stiles left him pouring coffee into a huge travel mug while he roped Finstock into getting him a tranquilizer gun. Ten minutes later they were on the road in Danny’s big truck, beginning the five hour journey to Yosemite where, Danny explained, a helicopter would bring them into the Hoover Wilderness.

He and Danny talked for most of the ride. Stiles told Danny about his past few weeks up north and Danny sympathized, telling him about how rough it had been when wildfires swept through the valley a couple years back, just before Stiles had started with the department. They stopped in Stockton for lunch and Stiles slept the rest of the way, still tired from the long drive back from the north. He woke as they drove into the forest, tall pines lining the roadway. They soon left the tourists behind, heading up through a pass where the land flattened out.

“There we go,” Danny said, nodding ahead of them, to where the trees dispersed into waist-high, snow-covered grass. A helicopter waited for them there, blades rotating lazily.

“What service,” Stiles said. Danny grinned and pulled to a stop fifty yards back. Stiles hopped out, grabbing his bag from the back of the truck. He and Danny ducked their heads and climbed into the waiting chopper. Stiles slipped on the headset Danny handed him, grinning when Danny asked, “This your first time in a helicopter?”

“Nah,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “My dad’s a sheriff up north and his station’s got a chopper. I’ve been up a few times.” He leaned forward eagerly though, staring out the window.

He’d been to Yosemite a couple times before – once as a kid, on one of the few camping trips his dad had time for, and he’d done some training exercises out there during warden orientation. The beauty of the park never ceased to amaze him, though. He could see Half Dome off to the right, and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada range rising before them, dusted with snow.

“So the latest reports have the wolves travelling east,” Danny said in his ear. “They’re probably past beyond the trails now, but the last sighting was yesterday morning, crossing Tioga Road near Polly Dome, so we’ll start there and head out.”

“You think we’ll be able to spot them?” Stiles asked doubtfully, staring out at the thick forest.

Danny leaned over and rustled around in a bag at his feet. He straightened after a moment, holding a piece of equipment in his hands, which he handed to Stiles. “Infrared camera. Should be easy to spot the pack.”

“Fancy,” Stiles remarked, finding the power button and flicking it on.

They flew around for nearly an hour, sweeping the valleys and meadows, scanning mountaintops and hillsides. Danny was the one who spotted them, giving an excited shout. “There!”

Stiles leaned over him to look out his window, a shiver of exhilaration running through him. There were five of them crossing a meadow, moving slowly, walking closely together. Stiles frowned and rooted around in his bag for a pair of binoculars. Up close, the wolves looked thin and tired. A couple of them were limping, and the one in the middle of the pack, a big silvery-black male flanked by the other four, had its head low to the ground, shoulders hunched. None of them seemed to even notice the helicopter circling overhead.

“What do you think?” Danny asked.

“They’re not looking great,” Stiles replied, still holding the binoculars to his face. “Coats dull, ribs showing. A couple look like they have injuries to their paws – they may not have been able to hunt for a while. They look exhausted.”

Eureka was more than three hundred miles north and it had taken them three weeks to get this far south. Stiles knew that wolves could move fast, traveling fifty miles a day or more, so for it to have taken them three weeks to do three hundred miles certainly said something about the state of their health.

“What’s your plan?” Danny asked.

“At the rate they’re moving, I’ll be able to keep up with them,” Stiles replied. “I’ll follow them for a few days, and if I can get close enough, I’ve got a few satellite collars to put on and see if I can do some first aid.” Stiles pointed to the end of the valley, where two mountains met. “They’ll probably keep heading in that direction, so if you drop me off down there, I’ll be able to meet them as they come through the pass. They’ll avoid going over the mountains if they can – it’s too exposed.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed, pulling out a map as the pilot swung the chopper toward the far end of the valley. He pointed to a couple of spots and said, “I don’t know how long you’ll be out here, but there are ranger outposts built here and here. Nothing more than sheds, but if the weather gets bad you can shelter there.” He scribbled a note on the map and handed it to Stiles. “They’re all locked, but the locks have the same combo. They’re stocked with food and water and anything you might need, if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Stiles smiled, taking the map and folding it into his pocket. “What’s the radio channel down here?”

“Thirteen through sixteen,” Danny replied. “Below thirteen is Yosemite. You may find the signal’s weak in the valleys, though, and if the weather’s bad, so is the signal.”

“All right,” Stiles said easily. “And when I’m ready to go, just radio in?”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed as the helicopter touched down in an open patch of snow-dusted grass. “My supervisor would appreciate it if you’d radio in every night though, just to let us know where you are and how things are going.”

“Can do,” Stiles agreed cheerfully, pulling off his headset and picking up his bag.

“Good luck!” Danny shouted over the noise of the propellers. Stiles grinned and hopped out of the chopper, ducking until he was out of the range of the blades. He watched it rise back into the air, waving at Danny. He watched it head back across the valley before turning, giving the land a thoughtful look. He could see a stream glistening through the trees and headed for it, wishing there was no snow on the ground – there was no way he’d be able to avoid leaving tracks.

Once down by the water, Stiles found a tall tree and scaled it, pulling his backpack up with him. He needed to make this as least stressful as possible for the wolves, and if he could watch them for a while before making himself known, that would be best. If they never knew he was here, that’d be even better, but they’d already seen the helicopter so they’d be on the alert now.

He pulled out his binoculars again, looking down the valley, and spotted the wolves probably a half mile away, still moving slowly. He had time to take out the map Danny had given him and look it over, taking his best guess at the route the wolves might take, before they drew close enough to observe with his own eyes. He folded the map up silently and put it away before leaning forward from his spot on the branch, eyes narrowed.

The wolves approached the stream cautiously, finally breaking from their tight pod to drink at the water’s edge. He watched the one closest to him, a tawny female, stretch her neck forward to lap at the water, and frowned. There was something glinting on her neck. Stiles leaned further forward, almost overbalancing, but his suspicions were confirmed. She was wearing a collar. All the wolves wore collars, thick bands of silver clasped around their necks.

Stiles sat back on the branch, thinking hard. This changed everything. These wolves had belonged to someone – but who? There were a couple sanctuaries scattered around the state, and a few owners around Hollywood who raised wolves for the movies, but a responsible owner would have made a report if they’d gone missing. Someone must not have wanted them any more – but why not take the collars off? Surely that’d be easier to trace back to.

This also meant, though, that the wolves might be used to a human presence, and making contact might be easier than he thought. He hoped so, anyway. The fact that some of them were injured could either work in his favor or against it, depending on the kind of human interaction they’d had in the past. If their owners had been the type to throw them out when they were injured, he couldn’t imagine they’d react to him favorably.

No time like the present, though, Stiles thought, and carefully lowered himself and his bag out of the tree. The wolves were about twenty-five yards away and hadn’t noticed him, but their heads shot up when his boots hit the snow. The pack surged backward, grouping around the big black male which snarled, his head down, tail up. Defensive threat, Stiles thought, keeping his body relaxed and still. He didn’t advance but looked at each of the wolves in turn. There was a smaller brown and gold male hovering behind the others, his ears pinned back, low and uncertain. A heavy-set muddy brown male stood to the right of the black male’s shoulder, the gold female on the black wolf’s other side. To the front, closest to Stiles, stood a stocky dirty-grey male with dark streaks of brown running down his neck and spine. Of all the wolves, this one seemed the least afraid, his ears perked forward slightly, golden eyes staring curiously into Stiles’.

Stiles watched the black wolf in the middle of the group. He hadn’t been able to see it while he was in the tree but now that the wolf was facing him, he could see that there was a massive cut across his face, one of his eyes crusted shut with blood and pus. The other eye – Stiles took an unconscious step backward – the other eye burned red. That had to be a trick of the light. And from the way that the wolf kept his tail raised high and ears flat, a continuous low rumbling emanating from his chest, Stiles had to guess that this was the alpha male.

Stiles moved slowly, sinking down to his knees, and the growling from the alpha grew louder but Stiles kept going until he sat on the ground, ignoring the way the cold immediately began creeping through his pants. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, watching the way the wolves’ ears twitched at the sound of his voice. He knew it wouldn’t help them, but it made him feel a little more confident. “I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help you guys – if you’ll let me.”

The wolves didn’t move. Stiles wasn’t disheartened; he hadn’t expected them to. He turned slowly, rooting around in his bag until he found a bag of beef jerky. “Here,” he said, opening the bag and tossing a few pieces in their direction. “Peace offering. You guys look hungry.”

The only wolf to move was the dirty-grey one at the front. He took a step forward, lowering his head and nosing at a piece of jerky. Stiles watched him patiently, grinning when the wolf picked it up and chomped it down. The grey wolf turned his head and huffed at the alpha, who snapped at him but stopped growling. Stiles watched the alpha step forward, shouldering the grey wolf aside. He nosed at the jerky on the ground but didn’t stop to eat any, heading right for Stiles instead.

It was all he could do to keep himself from scrambling back up into the tree because suddenly the black wolf was right in his personal space, rumbling again like a diesel engine. Stiles froze, his heart banging in his chest. This wasn’t usual – he’d never seen confrontational behavior like this (but then, he’d never seen a wolf with red eyes either). At the sanctuary in Montana, most of the wolves had done their best to avoid humans completely. Here, now, he couldn’t tell if this wolf viewed him as a threat or – Stiles swallowed – food. Wolves didn’t usually attack humans, but with their injuries it was impossible to know how long it’d been since they’d eaten, and here he was, sitting on the ground right in front of them like a present. Not for the first time in his life, Stiles cursed himself for not thinking his plan of action through.

He bit his lip when the alpha stepped up close to him. He could smell the beast, reeking of musk and dirt and blood. The wound on his face looked even worse up close and Stiles breathed in shallowly to keep from gagging at the sight and smell.

The alpha shoved his nose into Stiles’ chest, still growling. Stiles tried to remain as still as possible, a difficult task for someone as fidgety as him. The wolf sniffed his armpits, his neck – Stiles tried not to giggle reactively – and his crotch. And as he bent his head to sniff at the seam of Stiles’ pants, Stiles’ attention was caught by the collar around his neck, solid silver gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. He looked beyond the crest of the wolf’s back to the rest of the pack, who were all watching intently – the dirty grey one had even sat down. Stiles looked down at the wolf and swallowed, carefully lifting a hand to touch the collar. The cold metal stung his fingers and the alpha jerked his head up with a snarl, flashing white teeth and rotten breath about three inches from Stiles’ face. Stiles jerked his hand back with a yelp, heart pounding in his chest.

The alpha snarled again and whirled back around, pushing through the pack and stalking down into the shallow stream. The pack followed immediately, the dirty grey wolf pushing up onto his feet with a sigh. Stiles watched them go, trying to get his pulse under control. They were almost out of sight among the trees when he remembered what he was supposed to be doing and leapt to his feet, snatching up his bag. He splashed across the stream and ran through the trees, trying to keep up with the wolves. He saw them twist around to look as he came crashing through the pines and they broke into a trot, looking almost pained.

Stiles groaned. He’d never be able to keep up with them if they started running. Luckily for him, the injured wolves couldn’t keep up either – he could hear them whining. One of them was the dirty grey one, who fell back so far that Stiles was able to catch up with him. He almost laughed at the look the wolf gave him – a very human look which clearly said I have to deal with these assholes every day.

The afternoon wore on like this; Stiles followed the wolves as they walked and occasionally trotted through the valley. It started to snow sometime around sunset, big flakes falling lazily from the sky. Stiles wondered if they’d be running into the night and he hoped not – his feet were really starting to ache – but as the light faded the wolves slowed and eventually stopped in a grove of firs. Stiles stayed back about fifty yards, letting them have their space. He had a weird feeling they were humoring him and he didn’t want to push his luck.

Stiles made camp instead, stringing a tarp between the trees and setting up his little one-man tent beneath it. He thought about building a fire but worried the smell of the smoke might drive the wolves away. He made boiling water on his camp stove instead, and had a dinner of freeze-dried beef stew. As he ate, sitting with his legs hanging out of the entrance of his tent, he became aware of eyes watching him from the forest, glowing at about waist-height. Stiles stilled. The wolves must have smelled the food.

“Okay,” he said easily, as the dirty grey male slunk into the ring of light his lantern cast. Another stood beyond the light, a pale shape in the darkness. Stiles thought it might be the female. He moved carefully, setting another pot of water to boil so he could rehydrate more food. He’d packed plenty and it wasn’t like he was stuck out here – a helicopter ride back to civilization was only a radio call away. This reminded him that he was supposed to radio in to the rangers, but he didn’t want to spook the wolves. After he fed them, maybe.

After the food had cooled, he poured the packet – chicken and rice this time – into two portions on the snow. The grey wolf stepped forward immediately, almost inhaling the food in his rush to eat. The female was slower to come forward, stepping hesitantly into the lantern light, but when it looked like the grey was about to start eating her portion she snarled and pushed him aside, attacking the food ravenously. Three more sets of eyes appeared in the darkness beyond his little camp. Stiles smiled to himself and set about making more food.

When the wolves finished eating – even the alpha, who’d been the last to come out of the trees and accept the food Stiles made for him – they shocked him by not leaving. They settled down against each other, tails curled over noses. A strangely peaceful silence fell over the woods and Stiles watched them sleep, snow falling and catching in their fur. After a while he climbed into his tent and radioed to a ranger base somewhere in Toiyabe, letting them know he was still alive before shutting off his lantern and going to bed.

-

Sleeping in was not an easy thing to do in the forest – the changing light and noise of birds waking up all around make it difficult. Still, Stiles managed it somehow and when he finally stumbled out of the tent the wolves were gone. He packed frantically and went trotting off through the trees, munching on a granola bar. Luckily, the fresh snow made it easy for him to track the wolves and he could run on autopilot, mind still awakening.

Stiles liked being out in the woods – it was kind of a crucial part of his job. He’d never thought, back in high school, that he’d end up spending his days mostly alone out in the mountains. It was good for his brain, though – he’d been so unfocused when he was younger, mind leaping from thing to thing. Out here in the woods, in the uninterrupted silence, it was easier to concentrate on one thing at a time, to still his mind and body. It was almost like meditating, in a way – a sort of total reset, back to square one.

Stiles caught up to the wolves forty minutes later. They were higher up than where they’d started yesterday and the snow was deeper, making it harder to move quickly. Stiles could see the wolves were tired and he wondered how much rest they’d actually been able to get on their cross-state journey. He wondered why they didn’t just stop for a while and relax but the way they moved, slow as it was, was almost as if something were chasing them. Their body language exuded anxiety; tails tucked between their legs, ears pinned back. Stiles didn’t think it was directed at him, either – he noticed the way they looked over their shoulders, but their eyes looked past him to the forest beyond.

That night, Stiles made food for the wolves again and watched as they settled down around him. They’d stopped in a protected bluff between the foot of two mountains, huddling in a outcropping of rocks. It wasn’t snowing tonight but it was colder, the wind whistling through the stone. Stiles sat in the entrance of his tent, sipping a cup of tea and watching the way the wolves interacted with each other.

The pack structure was like no other he’d ever seen. He’d expected the female to be the alpha’s mate, but she seemed to ignore the black wolf completely, spending most of her time at the side of the big dark brown male. At this very moment they were curled up next to each other, his head on her back. The smallest wolf, who was mottled brown and gold with white down his chest and legs, acted like an omega, timid and cowed with his tail between his legs most of the time, but none of the other wolves treated him like one. They almost seemed to go out of their way not to snap at him. Even the alpha seemed fond of him, nuzzling against his neck every so often.

The dirty grey male was strange as well. He seemed less connected to the pack than the others, often trailing at the back. Even now he sat closer to Stiles than the others but again, he wasn’t treated like an omega either.

The grey wolf pricked up his ears as Stiles looked at him, golden eyes sparkling curiously. He huffed a little, squirming closer until he was almost up against Stiles’ legs. Across the camp, the alpha growled but the grey wolf ignored him, sniffing at Stiles’ pants curiously. Stiles held his breath and carefully lifted a hand, holding it out to the wolf, who panted on it without much interest. Stiles moved even more slowly, eventually touching his fingers to the wolf’s fur, just barely brushing the coarse strands. He watched the wolf’s ears flick back and forward and eventually settle in a neutral position.

Emboldened, Stiles ran his fingers through the wolf’s fur lightly, feeling the thick hairs of the outer coat and the finer, softer ones of the undercoat. Beneath his touch the wolf heaved out a sigh and laid its head on his legs. Stiles moved his hand to the collar, tensing a little, expecting a reaction like he’d had from the alpha, but the grey wolf either didn’t notice or didn’t care because it made no movement at all.

Stiles turned the collar slowly but it was absolutely devoid of any kind of markings at all. He frowned. What was the point of a collar if it didn’t say the animal’s name or the owner’s contact information? He supposed, if they’d been abandoned, then that was why the former owners hadn’t bothered removing them, but it didn’t really make sense. As far as he could tell, the collars were only for decorative purposes and he couldn’t see any way of taking them off.

He abandoned the collar for now and turned his attention to the wolf’s feet. “Can I touch your feet?” he asked out loud. The wolf’s golden eyes flicked to him and then away again. Not much of an answer. Stiles moved slowly, tracing his hand down the wolf’s muscular chest, then, very gently, down his legs. He curled his fingers around the pastern very lightly, lifting the paw from the snow so he could examine it. The grey wolf whined very quietly.

“Oh,” Stiles said softly. The footpads were raw and cracked, oozing with blood, skin red and bubbly. Stiles frowned. It looked like a burn. “Holy shit,” he muttered, mind racing. The first sighting of the wolves had been in Eureka. The wildfires had started in Eureka. Had the wolves been driven out of the coastal forests by the wildfires? If they’d been running over hot ground, that would explain the burns on their feet. Maybe they hadn’t been abandoned – maybe they’d escaped and the owners hadn’t reported them missing because they didn’t want to get in trouble for owning illegal animals. God knew the people up in that part of the state liked their privacy.

Stiles set the wolf’s paw down and leaned into the tent, digging through his bag to find his first aid kit. The grey wolf made a soft noise as Stiles cleaned his paws but he didn’t pull away which was, frankly, amazing. Stiles bent over him, so intent on his work that when he looked up from bandaging the wolf’s paws, it was a shock to find the alpha standing at his feet, watching him work. Stiles smiled cautiously. “See?” he said, affixing the last bandage. “I’m trying to help.”

The alpha looked at him quietly, expression neutral, and Stiles realized his eyes weren’t red. They were a tranquil hazel green. Where had he gotten red from? Some trick of the light?

“I could clean your eye, if you’d let me,” Stiles said softly. The alpha watched him a moment longer before turning and crossing the camp to lay down with the other wolves. “Or not.”

-

The next day, Stiles shot a deer the wolves spooked out of the woods, wincing as the sound echoed off the mountains. The wolves jumped at the noise but the call of fresh food seemed to soothe their nerves. That night they laid around Stiles with bloody faces, looking content and relaxed. The big brown wolf let him wrap his feet, which were burned just like the grey wolf’s, and he changed the bandages on the grey wolf’s paws, which were already starting to look a bit better. The alpha wouldn’t let Stiles touch him but he laid closer than the previous night. They all did; when Stiles unzipped his tent in the morning, the grey wolf was pressed right up against the entrance.

They crossed land Stiles wondered if anyone had ever touched. The trees were sparse in this valley, snow cover thin, and the wolves seemed uneasy. When Stiles stopped around noon to eat, they gathered around him, heads pointing toward the northern end of the valley.

“Is something moving over there?” Stiles asked idly. It was starting to snow again, the skies overhead a dull gray, and there was that particular silence that only comes with falling snow, heavy and muffling. Suddenly, his ears picked it up too – the sound of engines nearby, growing louder by the second. His head came up sharply and he scrambled for his binoculars as the wolves stood around him, showing their teeth, hackles bristling.

He spotted the source of the noise further down the valley; a convoy of people on snowmobiles and four-wheelers, probably six or seven of them. An uneasy feeling ran through him; machinery wasn’t allowed in the forest, nor were the guns strapped to the travelers’ backs. They didn’t look like rangers; none of them wore any sort of badge or emblem and the vehicles weren’t marked. Stiles rose carefully and gathered his things. It couldn’t hurt to be cautious – even if they were rangers, he had no reason to talk to them. And if they weren’t rangers, they were probably poachers and he definitely didn’t need to mess with them. Stiles and Finstock had once come across a clandestine marijuana farm hidden in Tahoe National Forest which had been guarded by some utterly terrifying foreign internationals armed with AK-47s, and that had been quite enough interaction with criminals for a lifetime.

Stiles retreated into a thick grove of firs and found a small cave under a knoll. The wolves piled in after him, breathing anxiously. Stiles was glad for the sparse snow cover because it would make their tracks far less noticeable. He sat in the semi-gloom with the grey wolf tucked up between his legs, the other wolves pressed up around him, listening to the sound of engines grow louder and louder. The alpha sat in the entrance to the cave, head turned to listen, but even he retreated as the sound of the convoy drew so close it sounded like they were right on top of them. He squeezed in between the female and Stiles and he was shaking.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles said gently, putting a tentative hand on the alpha’s back. His skin twitched under Stiles’ touch but he didn’t move. If anything he shuffled closer, a soft whine escaping him. “It’s okay,” Stiles murmured, fingers curling in the dense fur. “We’re okay.”

The wolves’ nervousness was catching, though; Stiles could feel his own heart hammering, his palms sweating. It seemed like hours before the sound of the engines finally faded. The wolves were slow to move again, more concerned with pushing their heads against each other in what seemed to be a reassuring way. The alpha stood, shoving his nose against Stiles’ neck before leaving the cave. Stiles followed the rest of the wolves outside, rubbing at the wetness the alpha’s nose had left on his neck.

Stiles wondered about the wolves’ reaction to the convoy of poachers. That hadn’t just been caution – that had been full-blown fear. Either the wolves had a negative association with the sound of vehicles or – or they knew the poachers. Was that possible? Stiles turned to look down the valley in the direction the poachers had disappeared and frowned. He pulled out his radio, because this was something he wasn’t equipped to handle, but with the elevation and snowfall, he couldn’t seem to get a signal. Stiles sighed as the wolves began to move.

Something about the experience in the cave changed the way the wolves viewed Stiles. Instead of him trailing the pack, they traveled with him, surrounding him. They came up close, butting their heads against his hands, bumping their bodies against his legs. It was weirdly touching.

The wolves were nervous, though – and Stiles was too. They all jumped when their presence spooked a grouse into flight, whirling off into the trees. Stiles kept trying to get someone on the radio but his attempts were met with static. He jumped when a high tone came out of his backpack and all the wolves leapt away, looking at him suspiciously. It was his weather radio, a red light blinking a warning on the interface – apparently the signal from NOAA was strong enough to reach him, even if he couldn’t reach the rangers. Stiles switched the radio on, brow furrowing as he listened to the computerized voice.

“A blizzard warning is in effect for Yosemite Valley and outlying areas including the cities of Bridgeport, Groveland, Topaz, and Mammoth Lakes. Warning remains in effect until ten AM Tuesday. Accumulations of ten to fourteen inches expected. Winds from the northwest between thirty-five and forty-five miles an hour with gusts up to sixty miles an hour. Conditions will be heaviest through Sunday evening and Monday afternoon. Hazardous travel conditions are—”

Stiles shut off the radio, anxiety rising in him. He’d done plenty of winter camping, but never in a blizzard. What if his tent got blown away? The wolves seemed to sense his worry; they pressed up close to his legs, watching him fixedly. “Looks like things are going to get a little crummy,” he told them, looking around the valley for a good place to shelter the coming storm. Into the trees? He’d be able to affix his tarp and keep the snow from collapsing his tent, but what if a tree fell on him? There was an outcropping of rocks half a mile away that would offer good protection from the wind, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hang his tarp. Oh well – he’d have to get out every hour or two and knock the snow off the tent. Stiles sighed and headed for the rocks, the wolves trotting around him. It was a little surprising how they allowed him to take the lead; apparently he’d made himself trustworthy somehow.

The snow was already starting to fall faster by the time they made it to the rocks and Stiles was happy to find a cave of sorts – two massive chunks of granite leaned against each other, leaving just enough space underneath them to set up his tent. By the time he’d made supper for himself and the wolves, the snow was falling so thick he couldn’t see beyond the ring of light cast by his lantern. The wolves kept close to the tent, curling up close to each other to keep warm. Stiles watched the alpha move among them, checking on each wolf before stopping beside Stiles. He lay down in the snow, head on his front paws, face turned toward Stiles, his good eye fixed on him.

“So today was weird, huh?” Stiles said to the alpha. He turned carefully, grabbing a hand cloth from his bag and wetting it with warm water. “All those people we saw? You guys got me good and freaked out about that.” Still talking, he leaned down, towel in hand, and gently pressed the cloth to the wound on the wolf’s face. He felt the alpha flinch but he didn’t move, so Stiles dabbed at the wound, cleaning the dried blood and pus from his eye. He kept talking, voice calm and even. “I wonder if that’s common around here – poachers in the woods. You’d think, with Yosemite being so close, they wouldn’t dare, but I guess it’s pretty remote out here, huh?” He sighed. “I like being out here, but it’s getting a little lonely. I’m almost missing Finstock.” Stiles straightened and made a face at the dirty cloth in his hand.

“Well, that’s your eye clean at least. Can you open it?” Stiles gently prodded at the alpha’s cheek, fingers rubbing at the coarse hair on his muzzle. “C’mon. Open it for me?”

The alpha snorted, lifting his head. He seemed to consider Stiles for a moment before blinking, both eyes flickering open.

“Yes!” Stiles crowed, catching the alpha’s face in his hands without thinking, peering into the newly opened eye. He looked for any sign of scratches on the lens but it seemed to be fine. “I was worried you might be blind in that eye, but it looks great! Oh.” Stiles suddenly realized he had his hands wrapped around the muzzle of an animal that could break through his bones in about two bites. He let go quickly. “Sorry.”

The alpha didn’t move, gazing into Stiles' face with his hazel eyes. His body language was relaxed, content, but Stiles found his gaze almost unsettling and he looked away.

“Man,” Stiles said, laughing uneasily. “Why do I sometimes get the weird feeling that you’re not a wolf at all?”

The alpha huffed gently and pushed his face under Stiles’ hands until they touched the collar around his neck. Stiles curled his fingers around it, the cold metal burning his skin. “Yeah, I guess this is next,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I can work on it tomorrow during the storm. I think my knife’s got a saw on it. That might be able to cut through it.”

A sudden thought struck him and he moved backward inside the tent, holding the entrance open. The alpha watched him curiously, ears pricking forward. “Come on,” Stiles coaxed, patting the nylon floor. “Will you come in? Get out of the wind? It’ll be a tight squeeze, but there’s enough room for everyone. I think.”

The alpha didn’t move but suddenly the grey beta peered around the tent flap, ears forward and inquisitive. Stiles laughed. “It would be you,” he said, patting the floor again. The grey wolf glanced at the alpha and stepped inside cautiously. Stiles yelped when he shook his fur, sending droplets of cold, dirty water flying everywhere. The beta seemed content to stay though, curling up near the head of Stiles’ sleeping bag with a sigh. Stiles looked outside at the alpha, raising his eyebrows. “Well? You comin’ in?”

The alpha rose to his feet after a long pause, giving a short bark. Stiles found his tent suddenly flooded by wolves, the betas piling in on top of him. The alpha stepped in last, looking haughty.

“Call me the wolf whisperer,” Stiles said triumphantly, raising a fist to the ceiling. He could have sworn that the alpha rolled its eyes.

-

Stiles and the wolves spent the next day and a half in the tent. Stiles kept the flap partially unzipped so the wolves could slip out when they needed to relieve themselves but even so it was pretty warm in the tent – though it did smell overwhelmingly of wolf musk. He stayed in his sleeping bag with at least two wolves laying across his legs and, what with five wolves and one human inside the triple-insulated tent, he was warm enough to strip to a sweatshirt and hat. He laid on his stomach for most of the day, scraping at the alpha’s silver collar with the crappy saw tool on his pocket knife. It was slow going – it took him nearly all of Monday morning and early afternoon to cut through, and he kept accidentally inhaling silver shavings. He had to keep pausing, his fingers cramping up.

The alpha was surprisingly patient with him. He only snarled once, when Stiles’ hand slipped and he accidentally stabbed him with the tiny saw. Most of the time he kept his head on Stiles’ pillow, half asleep. He lifted his ears at the triumphant noise Stiles made after finally cutting through the collar.

“Okay!” Stiles said enthusiastically, pulling his legs out from under the wolves on top of him so he could kneel over the alpha. He put his hands on either side of the cut and pulled as hard as he could. The metal didn’t move even a millimeter. Stiles puffed impatiently and kept trying, pulling and pulling at the collar until the alpha made a disgruntled noise and jerked his head out of Stiles’ hands.

“Fine,” Stiles said. “Guess I’ve got to make another cut. I thought silver was pliable. Maybe that’s gold? What a pain.”

His hands were aching, though, so Stiles scooted himself back into his sleeping bag, sending snoozing wolves grumbling as they rearranged themselves around him. He wrapped an arm around his pillow, propping up his chin, and watched the alpha, who lay his head on his paws and watched him in return. Stiles lifted a hand, offering it to the alpha to smell, and the big wolf licked at his fingers. Stiles smiled sleepily and set his hand behind the alpha’s ear, scratching at the skin. The alpha made a quiet, contented noise and moved closer, till his body was right up against Stiles’, his head on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles lifted his arms carefully, putting his arms around his neck, burying his fingers in the thick ruff of ruff at his shoulders.

The alpha sighed quietly, relaxing against him. Stiles fell asleep with his face against the warmth of the alpha’s body, fingers curled loosely in his fur.

-

When Stiles woke up some time later, it wasn’t quite evening yet, but the storm seemed to have lessened, the tent shaking less in the wind. His arms had slipped from around the alpha’s neck, but the big black wolf still had his face on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles slipped out from under him carefully, murmuring, “Dinnertime.” The alpha didn’t even wake; he just sunk into the warm spot Stiles left behind.

Stiles melted snow and warmed up more freeze-dried food. He was starting to get low; he’d packed enough food for a few weeks in the wilderness, but feeding himself plus five wolves was draining his supplies a lot more quickly than he’d imagined. He should probably try to point them toward one of the ranger outposts when they began moving again so he could stock up.

Stiles shook his head. Stock up? What the hell was he talking about? He’d done his job. He’d made contact with the wolves, observed their behavior, done his best to fix their wounds. Once he was in a spot where he could get radio contact, he should order a helicopter and get out of there.

But…something was going on. These wolves had come from somewhere, and he was determined to figure out what had happened to them. He glanced behind him at the wolves, most of whom were watching him patiently, waiting to be fed. He couldn't help feeling attached to them, not when they’d opened themselves up to trust him like this.

Whatever, he decided. It wasn't like Finstock had given him a specific date to come back. He could spend a few more days out here trying to figure out what to do.

After the wolves had eaten, Stiles settled back into his sleeping bag and began working on a new cut in the alpha's collar. He was nearly halfway through before he gave up, fingers aching. As he folded up his knife, the alpha nudged at his hand, whining.

"I'll finish it tomorrow," Stiles told him, pushing his head away. "There's no – ow!" The alpha snapped at his fingers, nipping his skin. Stiles jerked his hand out of reach, looking injured. "What was that for?"

The alpha growled, shaking his neck.

"My hands are killing me," Stiles protested. It hurt to uncurl them from the cramped way he’d been holding the knife. The alpha snarled. Stiles picked up his knife again, waving it about threateningly. "Pushy asshole."

The wolf huffed, licking his hand apologetically. Stiles shook his head and settled back down to work.

It was nearly midnight before he'd cut down far enough that he could finally bend the collar enough to get it off the alpha's neck. The alpha climbed to his feet as Stiles pulled it off, the rest of the wolves watching intently, almost like they were expecting something to happen. Stiles watched too, suddenly a little nervous. If this were a fairy tale, he thought, this would be the point where the wolf would transform into a handsome prince.

The alpha shook all over like he was trying to dislodge something from his fur. He stamped and paced in the small space, ears pinned back, body suddenly exuding anxiety. Stiles didn't understand what was going on, but apparently the other wolves did because he found himself pushed out of the way. The pack swarmed around the alpha, rubbing against him, whining and huffing. The alpha looked more and more distressed, until he suddenly tilted his head back and let out a mournful howl. The noise was incredibly loud in the small tent and Stiles clamped his hands over his ears. The howl rolled on and on, the other wolves tilting their heads back to join in on the call.

The pack settled down eventually, collapsing around the alpha, who looked miserable. Stiles watched them, bewildered. He'd never seen anything like this. What the hell was wrong with the alpha?

He slid into his sleeping bag and fell asleep watching the wolves, brow furrowed with worry.

-

Stiles woken the following morning with a cold nose in his ear. He yelped, pushing away the grey wolf, who whined anxiously. "What?" he asked. "Was that necessary?"

He sat up, rubbing at his face, and looked up when the alpha slipped in from outside. The wolf looked nervous, his tail held low to his body. He stared at Stiles imploringly.

"What?" Stiles asked again. "What's going on? Is it—” He cut himself off when he heard it - engines again, the sound growing louder with every passing second. "Shit!"

Stiles scrambled to get his boots on, almost falling in his haste to exit the tent. For a moment he was blinded by the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow but after his vision cleared he spotted movement on the horizon. Too far away to count how many, but it was definitely a long line of people on snowmobiles.

"Get in the tent!" Stiles exclaimed, waving his arms at the alpha, who had followed him out. "Hide!"

The wolf slipped back inside with the others and Stiles zipped the tent shut behind them. They hadn't gone far during the storm, but Stiles walked around the shelter, kicking snow over paw prints. He ripped the Fish & Game badge off his jacket as the group of snowmobiles drew close. He could tell they were the same people he'd seen before - he recognized the blonde-haired woman riding at the head of the convoy, a shotgun across her thighs. Stiles swallowed.

"Morning!" he called as they pulled up to the tent, summoning his best goofy smile. There were ten riders on seven snowmobiles and they all had guns. He decided it was best to play the ignorant hiker. "You guys out here for that storm yesterday?"

"Sure were," the blonde woman replied, casting him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. He watched her uneasily. She reminded him of a spider about to eat the fly caught in her web. "You out here alone, sweetheart?"

Stiles grinned though fear stabbed at his spine. "Yeah, I come out here every couple of months. It's peaceful."

"I bet you've seen some interesting things up here," the woman said. "Did you hear those wolves last night?"

"I thought that's what that was!" Stiles lied enthusiastically. "I didn't think there were any in California!"

"Sounded like they were coming from this valley," the woman said, gesturing around. She looked at Stiles intently, a smile lingering around her lips. It wasn't a nice expression.

Stiles shrugged, trying to remain casual. "Could've been. It's hard to tell sometimes ; the sound has a tendency to bounce off the mountains, I think."

"It does," the woman agreed. "Well, I think we'll be moving on. You need a ride back to the trailhead, sweetheart?"

"Nah, thanks," Stiles declined with a smile. "I'll be out here for a few more days."

The woman watched him for a long moment and he made himself meet her eyes. She smiled and jerked her head at her companions, none of whom had taken their eyes off Stiles the entire time they were talking. Stiles watched them go, disappearing over a low rise before he dove into the tent, heart pounding.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed as the wolves surrounded him, noses shoving against him worriedly. He patted backs and scratched behind ears. "Who the hell was that woman?! Talk about terrifying, god!"

The alpha pushed against his chest and Stiles wrapped his arms around him, sighing. "If she's the one who's after you, there is no way I'm letting her take you."

-

Stiles and the pack moved out of the valley, careful to move in the opposite direction of the hunters' convoy. One of the ranger outposts was in the next valley, about ten miles away. It took a long time to get there; moving through the deep snow was tiring. It was three feet deep in places and hid all kinds of things to trip over. Still, the wolves seemed to be enjoying themselves despite that morning's close call with the poachers. They romped around in the snow like giant puppies, bowling each other over and play-fighting enthusiastically.

The alpha did not join in on the fun and games. He kept to Stiles' side, ears moving back and forth as he kept track of the pack gamboling around them. Stiles kept his hand on the wolf's back, liking the contact. He wondered if he should think about getting a dog once he returned home. Having some company would be nice.

He was still thinking about this when the snow shifted under his feet, tumbling him over the edge of a steep ravine he hadn't realized he was so close to. Stiles yelped in alarm and the alpha surged forward, sinking his teeth into the sleeve of Stiles' jacket. Stiles' momentum was too great, however, and he went rolling down the steep slope, pulling the alpha with him. He came to rest against a boulder halfway down but before he could even blink, the alpha slammed into him and his head smacked against the stone, knocking in him out neatly.

-

Consciousness came trickling back to him in spurts. The first spurt had him awake but his eyes felt like lead and he kept them closed. The second spurt had him realizing that he was in his sleeping bag and there were warm arms folded around his chest, his back up against something solid. Stiles thought about this for a little while longer, though he was having trouble grasping on to any concept for longer than a few seconds.

He’d been knocked out – he could faintly remember the tumble down the hill. Someone, maybe him, had gotten the tent up and his sleeping bag laid out. Someone – not him unless the universe had taken a turn for the very weird multiverse where he had a doppelganger – had their arms around him and he was extremely comfortable apart from the way his head pounded like a drum if he even breathed. Stiles decided to go with the flow and go back to sleep before he woke up cold in a ravine with an unconscious wolf on top of him.

-

The next time Stiles woke, he felt brave enough to open his eyes. This was definitely his tent, and the weight behind his back had left. Instead there was a naked man sitting near his feet with his back to Stiles, one of the wolves in his lap. The faint rasping noise Stiles could hear sounded a lot like the saw on his knife cutting through a silver collar. Stiles stared at the unfamiliar spiral tattoo on the man’s back, his vision wobbling and blurring when he tried to focus. He closed his eyes once more.

-

The third time Stiles woke, the sun had gone down and he could feel the weight of wolves on his legs, breathing slow in slumber. The long line of heat against his back was taller than a wolf, though, and the weight on his chest felt very much like a human arm. Stiles opened his eyes into the darkness, heartbeat picking up. Whoever lay behind him shifted slowly, making a quiet noise. Stiles felt their nose brush against the back of his neck and the touch sent heat roaring down his spine. Stiles swallowed; it had been a long time since he’d slept so close to someone.

“Who are you?” he asked out loud, voice loud in the quiet tent. The wolf at his hip – he thought it was the big brown one – grumbled in his sleep but didn’t wake.

The person behind him shifted again, arm tightening against Stiles’ chest. Stiles pushed at his arm, struggling to sit up. The sudden movement did not earn him any favors with his head, though – it pulsed in protest and Stiles sank back down with a groan.

“Stay,” the man beside him commanded, his voice hoarse. Stiles felt him move, sitting up and feeling around.

“Look, I’m thankful that you pulled me out of that ravine and getting me in here, if that was you,” Stiles said, “but I’m really uncomfortable with you in—”

Light filled the tent as the man located the lantern and Stiles cut himself off, staring. He knew those hazel eyes and the cut across his face. He recognized the surly expression on his face. Stiles stared at the man sharing his tent, his mouth open, because he suddenly realized what the silver collar had been for - containment. “Oh my god,” he murmured. “Oh my god, you’re the alpha.”

He knew about werewolves. His mom had read him fairy tales when he was little, and he’d read Goosebumps books about them and he’d seen Underworld. But he was a scientist and had in no way expected the outcome of this little adventure to be fucking werewolves. Yeah, there had been that weird thing with the alpha’s red eyes and the way the wolves seemed to understand him when he spoke, but come on, seriously? This was so fucking far outside his field of expertise.

“Is this why you got so upset last night when I got the collar off?” Stiles asked him, because he was still trying to compute this and he needed answers. “Because you couldn’t transform?”

The man – alpha – wolf – touched his neck reflexively. “Couldn’t remember how,” he muttered. “Been too long.”

Stiles stared at him, at his narrow nose and sharp cheekbones. “And you’re here now how?”

“You were hurt.” The man lifted his hands, flexing his fingers. “Needed hands and there they were.”

“Okay.” Stiles rubbed his hands over his face. “Okay. Um. This is a lot to take in. Okay. Wow. Uh – what’s your name? No, wait, scratch that. Like, am I dreaming right now? Do you hallucinate when you hit your head? Is that a side effect of a concussion? Because I am one hundred percent certain that there is no such thing as werewolves.”

The man sighed and held his hand up in front of his face. Stiles whimpered when his fingernails grew into long, lethal-looking claws.

“Oh my god,” he said. “What are you going to do with those?”

The claws slid back into blunt fingernails and the man frowned at him. “Not going to hurt you,” he said, sounding a little hurt himself.

Stiles shut his eyes and breathed in deeply. He thought about the alpha as a wolf, brushing up against his body. “Fine,” he said out loud. “So you’re a werewolf. I want to ask you some questions, but can you put on some clothes, please? Because you are really distracting.”

The alpha looked down at himself with his brow slightly furrowed as if he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He turned obligingly though, searching through Stiles' bag to find his spare clothes. Stiles was reminded of the fact that it had been a few days since he’d bothered with a fresh shirt or pair of pants and he probably stank to high heaven. He burrowed down a little further in his sleeping bag, pulling the cloth close to his neck self-consciously.

The alpha barely managed to squeeze himself into a pair of pants, though they looked as though they might split at the seams if he bent his knees too far. He found a t-shirt and stretched it over his broad chest, grumbling to himself. He was entirely too muscular, Stiles decided, staring up at the tent ceiling steadfastedly, and way too handsome for his own good. And for Stiles’ own good, Jesus. He didn’t seem bothered by the cold at least, sitting back down on the floor to face Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles said again. “Now that’s taken care of, thanks. Uh. Can you tell me about yourself? Like who you are and where you’re from and how you ended up a werewolf?” Stiles gestured at the sleeping wolves around them. “And these guys? Are they werewolves as well?”

The alpha tilted his head to one side, considering all the questions. "My name is Derek," the alpha said finally, still rubbing at his neck unconsciously. "Derek Hale. My family lived in Beacon Hills before I was caught. I was born this way - I wasn't turned." He looked at Stiles patiently.

"Oh." Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. And what happened?"

Derek nodded toward the forest. "Those people we saw? They’re hunters. That woman’s name is Kate Argent. Her family comes from a long line of hunters and their sole purpose in this world is tracking down and killing weres. They hunt us. When I was in high school, they killed my parents and took me captive."

“What?” Stiles yelped. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry—”

The alpha shook his head. “Haven’t really thought about it in a while. It’s been a long time.”

“So...you used to live like a human?" Stiles asked. Derek nodded. "How long have you been in wolf form?"

"Eight years," Derek sighed. “Always had the collar on. It keeps me from shifting.”

"And these guys are your pack?"

"Yes and no," Derek replied. He pointed at the smallest wolf, the gold and brown one. "That's Isaac. His father joined the hunters about five years ago. Isaac's mother was bitten while pregnant and turned, and Isaac is a born were like me. His mother died before his father joined the hunters, and he let them take Isaac."

"That's terrible," Stiles said, watching the wolf sleeping. "Why's he so nervous all the time?"

“He’s only six,” Derek said, his face softening. He stroked a hand down Isaac’s spine. “I’ve never seen him in his human form. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.”

“Shit,” Stiles said softly, watching Isaac’s ears flick back and forth uncertainly, even in his sleep. “I thought he was an omega, maybe.”

“Werewolf packs are different,” Derek replied quietly, his attention focused on Isaac. “He’s just a beta from another pack.”

Stiles sat up carefully, pulling his knees to his chest. “Who else have we got?”

“Boyd and Erica,” Derek said, pointing to the big brown wolf and the tawny female in turn. “They broke into the hunters’ compound as teenagers and the hunters punished them by forcing the bite. And that’s Scott,” he said, pointing at the dirty grey wolf, who was curled up by Stiles’ pillow. “He dated one of the hunters’ daughters but they found out he’d been turned and forced him into the collar.” Derek gave Scott a fond look. “He’s kind of an idiot.” Scott opened one golden eye and gave an irritated snort. Derek ignored him.

“What did the hunters want with you guys?” Stiles asked. “I mean, they could have just killed you, right?”

“Fighting,” Derek replied bitterly.

“Fighting?” Stiles repeated, bewildered.

“Like dogs. The hunters and all their redneck friends have these big get-togethers up in eastern Oregon every summer. They’d take some of us with them, make us fight other wolves, humans who tried to help us. Sometimes people would come back, sometimes not. There used to be more of us.” Derek closed his eyes, pain flashing over his features.

Stiles kind of wanted to hug him, but he stayed still. “And you’ve fought?” he asked quietly.

Derek opened his eyes and nodded. “It was kill or be killed,” he said softly. “We tried to make it quick for each other – the silver stops our healing abilities and no one wants to suffer.”

“But you escaped somehow?”

“Yeah.” Derek rubbed a hand over his face and Stiles noticed that the cut across his nose was fading. “They were up in Oregon when the wildfires started spreading. Allison – Scott’s girlfriend – she let us out when the fires got too close.”

Derek closed his mouth, looking miserable. Stiles swallowed, looking down at his knees. Eventually, he said, “You know, I would have thought you’d be a lot more…wild.”

Derek snorted unhappily. “You have to hold onto your humanity or you’ll lose it. That…that’s what happened to my sister.”

Stiles swallowed uncomfortably. “Your sister was captured with you?”

“Yeah. She became alpha after our mother died and,” Derek closed his eyes. “She went wild. Rabid, we call it.”

“But she…she’s not here,” Stiles said, unsure he wanted to hear the reason why.

“No,” Derek said mournfully. “I killed her. She tried to attack Allison when she let us out and we – we have a code. We don’t harm humans that haven’t tried to hurt us and Allison never – I had to stop her.”

Stiles watched the way Derek’s mouth twisted downward, fingers digging into his thighs, pain burning in his hazel eyes. He thought of the way the alpha had kept near constant physical contact with him over the past couple of days. He remembered how he’d felt after his mom died, both aching for and dreading human touch. It wasn’t like Derek was a stranger, exactly. Stiles set his jaw and lay down in his sleeping bag.

“Come on,” he said, pulling back the cover and patting the space next to him invitingly. “Get in here before you freeze.”

Derek lifted his head, looking uncertain. If he’d still been in wolf form, his ears would be pinned flat, tail pressed to his legs.

“Come on,” Stiles repeated gently. “It’s okay.”

Something in Derek’s face shifted. He looked young, vulnerable, brows furrowing with worry before he seemed to make up his mind, climbing in beside Stiles. Stiles leaned over him to zip the sleeping bag up and fought back a squeak of surprise when Derek rolled into him, pressing his face to Stiles’ throat, broad shoulders shaking. Stiles sighed softly, putting his arms around Derek in a tight hug. He listened to Derek’s soft, choked sobs and blinked back sympathetic tears. It had been nearly fifteen years since his mom died, but he understood the hurt, remembered it all too clearly. Derek’s sister had been dead three weeks and the pack had been so busy running that he probably hadn’t had even a second to mourn her. This was fine. This was healthy.

-

When Stiles woke the next morning he was on his stomach, half suffocated under the weight of Derek’s body on top of him. He couldn’t feel his legs at all, probably due to Derek, as well as the two wolves – Boyd and Erica, he was pretty sure Derek had said – who lay sprawled across the lower half of his body. He was hot, too – Derek’s body seemed to emit heat like a radiator. He could feel the sweat gathering in the small of his back and wriggled around uncomfortably, trying to work himself out from under the alpha without waking him.

It was more difficult that he thought; Derek made a discontented noise and shoved an arm around Stiles’ chest, keeping him firmly in place. Stiles breathed out through his nose, trying not to think about his morning wood and how he was pretty sure he could feel Derek’s as well, hard against his back. He jabbed an elbow into Derek’s ribs.

“Lemme go,” Stiles muttered into his pillow. “I gotta pee.”

Derek rolled off him with a sigh and Stiles managed to get his legs out from under the wolves, stumbling out of the tent and into the trees. He walked until the tent was almost lost from sight and, for truth’s sake, pissed into a clump of bushes. Then, with a guilty look back at the tent, he jerked off, biting the inside of his cheek to keep silent. This was bad. Having sexual thoughts about a werewolf was probably some form of bestiality. He should be freaking out right now, not jerking off to the thought of Derek’s altogether too handsome face.

Stiles put his dick back in his pants and rubbed a handful of snow over his face, the sharp cold waking him up a bit. He needed to know what Derek’s plans were and he needed to not get attached, though he suspected it was too late for that, because he already kind of thought of the pack as his. Stiles sighed and rubbed more snow over his hands.

The wolves were playing around in the snow around the tent, bowing and huffing excitedly. Stiles smiled as he ducked back into the tent, kicking off his boots. Derek was sitting up, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand across his face. He looked drained.

“You okay?” Stiles asked him, digging through his backpack and locating his last two granola bars. He offered one to Derek, who took it cautiously. “You look tired.”

“I’m not,” Derek said, his body betraying him with a yawn. He fumbled with the packaging before giving up, tossing the bar on the sleeping bag with a frustrated sigh. “I’m not used to this body yet.”

“Well, it’s been a while,” Stiles replied understandingly, picking up the bar and opening it for him. “What’s it like being a wolf?”

Derek frowned absently. “It hurt,” he said eventually. “The collar forced the change and it hurt the entire time I was in that form. The wolf’s not supposed to be a separate entity – it’s just part of you, but when you don’t have a choice, it’s painful.”

Stiles winced. “Sorry.”

Derek shook his head, taking a large bite of the granola bar.

“Uh,” Stiles began, fiddling anxiously with the wrapper of his own breakfast. “What’s your plan? I mean, where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” Derek sighed. “When we left, all we were thinking about was getting as far away from the hunters as possible, but obviously we haven’t gone far enough. Now? I don’t know. There are packs in Arizona – I thought we might able to get out there and blend in.”

“I’ll help you,” Stiles said earnestly.

Derek gave him a considering look. “This is dangerous,” he said finally, with a little shake of his head. “You saved our lives, but you don’t need to do any more for us. You don’t owe us anything.”

“I know that,” Stiles replied, a little offended. “I didn’t help you because you owed me anything in the first place. It’s my job, but more than that, I—” Stiles floundered. “I want to help,” he finished lamely. “I’ve got contacts in other game departments. I can help you guys move.”

Derek watched him for another long moment before sighing. “Fine,” he said, admitting defeat. “You know this area better than we do. Where do we go next?”

Stiles grinned and fished his map out of his bag, spreading it open across his legs. “Well, I’ve got to stock up before we go any further. The ranger outpost shouldn’t be much further north – maybe two or three more miles. After that, we can head east. My Jeep’s back in Tahoe, but I can probably borrow a car from the Forestry guys. Should be smooth sailing.”

“Hm,” said Derek, but he didn’t argue. Stiles put the map away and scrounged around in his bag for his spare boots. He had to tie them for Derek, as the werewolf couldn’t seem to get his fingers quite under control. They broke camp twenty minutes later.

-

The pack reached the ranger outpost around noon after walking through the deep snow for hours. Derek forged ahead of Stiles, breaking a trail for him. He never got too far ahead, though, always turning to make sure Stiles was still behind him, pausing to touch his hand or cheek reassuringly before pushing onward. Stiles didn’t mind following because it meant he got to watch Derek’s ass in his too-tight pants. He was so fucking screwed.

While Stiles went into the shed, Derek sat outside with the wolves, sawing at Scott’s collar. Inside, Stiles found a veritable cache of freeze-dried food stored in large plastic tubs, as well as dry firewood and kindling, tarps, batteries, clothes - even an old pair of snowshoes tucked away in one corner. He restocked his supply of food and then dug through the clothes, hoping he could find something for Derek, who was only wearing a sweatshirt over the t-shirt he'd borrowed. He said he was fine, but Stiles was happy to find a thick coat with the US Forestry badge on the sleeve and he went outside to give it to Derek.

"Here," Stiles said, offering him the coat. "You'll look official in this."

Derek looked up, squinting against the sunlight. "Thanks," he said, taking the jacket and shrugging it on.

"I think I've got all I need," Stiles said, locking the door behind him. He nodded toward the wolf in Derek's lap. "How's the collar coming?"

"Slow," Derek admitted.

"It doesn't hurt to touch, does it?" Stiles asked worriedly. "The silver, I mean?"

Derek shook his head. "Not exactly. It's draining more than anything. Silver blocks all of our powers - the ability to shift, the ability to heal quickly. The touch makes you feel tired all the time, like a constant headache, except it's your entire body."

"Ugh," Stiles grimaced.

"Yeah," Derek said quietly, rubbing Scott's ears. "Ugh."

“Hey, while you’ve got Scott, let me check his feet,” Stiles said, quickly changing the subject. “I should change the bandages.”

Derek nodded, rolling Scott onto his back. Scott seemed to grin, wriggling around in Derek’s arms delightedly. “See?” Derek said pointedly to Stiles. “I told you he was an idiot.” Scott growled and kicked Derek in the face with one of his back paws. “Don’t do that!” Derek snarled and Scott went still, his tail curling between his legs.

“Don’t be mean,” Stiles admonished, unwrapping one of Scott’s bandaged paws. Scott gave Derek a look that clearly said Yeah, don’t be mean, and Derek rolled his eyes. Stiles snorted and examined the paw. Most of the burnt skin had peeled away, leaving pink, sensitive skin showing through. “It’s looking good,” he said. “I’m not sure whether it’s best to leave it unwrapped or not now.”

Derek bent his head, looking at Scott’s paw. “Leave it,” he said. “I’m almost done with the collar. He’ll heal quickly once I get it off.”

“All right.” Stiles dropped down next to him. “You think we should just stick around here until we get all the collars off? I didn’t look, but there’s probably some kind of saw in the shed so we can work at the same time. There’s clothes and stuff in there, too. Plenty of food.”

Derek looked up at the sky thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “I think that would be best.”

“Cool,” Stiles nodded, getting back to his feet. “I’m going to see if I can find anything to cut through the metal.”

He dug through a tub full of tools for a while before he found a small handsaw. It required a lot more care than the tiny saw on his pocket knife, but it was a heck of a lot sharper. Stiles settled back down next to Derek with the big brown wolf – Boyd, he reminded himself – between his knees and started rasping away.

They’d only been at it for about half an hour when Derek set down the knife and said, “Here goes nothing,” putting his hands around the collar on Scott’s neck. Stiles stopped what he was doing and all the wolves gathered around to watch as Derek pried the collar open, gritting his teeth against the strain. Stiles raised his eyebrows, highly impressed at his strength; Derek didn’t need a second cut like Stiles did. He pulled the collar off Scott and nudged at him with one big hand. “C’mon. You’ve only been in that form a couple of months. I know you haven’t forgotten what being human is like.”

Scott snapped at his hand playfully and slipped off his legs. Watched by the rest of the pack and Stiles, he sat in the snow at the edge of the tree line, a look of concentration on his face. It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment he started to shift, but Stiles’ jaw dropped when he realized it was happening; Scott’s limbs were elongating, his fur receding. It was kind of horrifying – Stiles could hear his bones shifting – but it was utterly fascinating at the same time. Suddenly there was a young man around his age standing there, tan and broad with a huge white-toothed smile splitting his face. He looked down at his hands, spreading his fingers wide, then jerked his head up to grin at Derek. “You fucking did it, dude!”

“I knew you weren’t an idiot,” Derek said, sounding a lot more fond than his expression betrayed. Scott gave an excited whoop and leapt forward, throwing his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek actually laughed, clapping a hand against Scott’s shoulders before the young man pulled away and turned his grin on Stiles.

“Stiles,” Scott said, almost experimentally. “I owe you, man.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Stiles said. He held out his hand for Scott to shake, but Scott bypassed that and gave him an enthusiastic hug.

Derek rolled his eyes and said, “You help him find some clothes. I’ll start on Erica.”

They spent the afternoon sitting in the slowly lengthening sunlight, sawing away at the collars on Erica and Boyd. Derek was mostly silent, bent over Erica as he hewed at her collar, but Scott and Stiles chatted. It turned out that Scott was from a couple towns over from where Stiles had grown up in northern California. They were the same age – as Scott cheerfully pointed out, they’d probably played lacrosse against each other without even knowing it.

“How’d you end up a wolf, then?” Stiles asked. Derek lifted his head, also curious.

Scott shrugged. “I got attacked one evening in college. I was already dating Allison at that point, and she knew exactly what had happened. She said it was probably a rogue alpha, one without a pack, but I never saw or heard about it again, so we guessed that it might have thought I didn’t survive the bite. It happens, I guess.”

“And how’d you end up at the Argent compound?” Derek asked sharply.

“I’d been a few times before,” Scott told him. “For family stuff with Allison. I’d never seen all the illegal stuff though, just inside the house. After I got bitten, Allison told me all about the things her family does. She never – she never wanted to be a part of it, which is why she moved away for college. And after I was turned, we avoided going to the house for as long as we could, but her parents started getting suspicious and when we finally went back, Chris – that’s Allison’s dad – I don’t know, I guess he decided that it was time for me to join the family or something, or maybe he just knew somehow, and he took me out back to see where they kept you guys.” Scott looked pained. “I freaked out. I couldn’t stop it. I’d never seen or smelled another werewolf before and there were all of you in pain and stress and I shifted without even realizing it.”

“I remember that,” Derek said quietly. “I’m sorry.”


	2. hunter!Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 23K
> 
> You may have read this before; at some point, I posted a link to the google doc when I realized I wasn't going to finish. Anyway, this was going to be a retelling of season one with the additional plot where Stiles' dad also gets bit by Peter on that rainy night in the woods, sending Stiles into dark!Stiles mode, but I think after a while I got bored following the plot. This was fic #22 - #21 was "we knew the hands of the devil" and #23 is "our lives are changing lanes".

The night Stiles' mother died, there were two fatal car accidents in Beacon Hills. One occurred on the highway outside of town, a ten-car pile-up in the eastbound lane that stopped traffic for over six hours. It rained hard that night; visibility was next to none, and the roads were slick. A fire truck rushing to the scene crashed into the last car in the line, folding the sedan like an accordion. There were two fatalities — the old man in the sedan and, further along, at the front of the wreck, a girl in a pickup truck. She lay pinned to the ground with the truck on top of her and the sheriff lay on the ground next to her, holding her hand while the light faded from her eyes, not caring about the rain and spilt oil soaking his uniform.

"You should go," the girl told him, voice low and fogged with pain.

"No, no," the sheriff said gently. "I've got you."

"You should go," the girl told him again, brow furrowing. "Go to your family."

"They're fine," the sheriff assured her, and didn’t move from her side until her chest stopped rising.

Across town, Stiles and his mom were driving home from a visit with Claudia's best friend and her daughter, Heather, who was Stiles' age. They took the shortcut through the preserve and Stiles stared out at the dark trees, leaves dripping with rain and twisting with the wind.

"Heather doesn’t like me any more," he told his mom from the back seat, small voice mournful. "She said boys are gross and she wouldn't play with me."

Claudia smiled faintly, eyes flickering up to the rear view mirror to look at her son, his hands folded in his lap, a glum look on his face. "You're eight," she said. "That will change. Soon she'll be trying to kiss you."

Stiles made a disgusted face. "Gross!"

Claudia laughed, her eyes slipping back to the road just in time to see a herd of deer cross the road, tan bodies catching the light from the car. She swore, jamming on the brakes. The deer scattered, unhurt, but the car lost traction on the road, skidding across the dividing line and over the edge of the road, tumbling down an embankment. The headlights flickered and went out. The rain kept falling.

-

When Stiles opened his eyes, his face was wet and his head hurt and it was hard to breathe. He was on his side in a puddle of cold water, and it wasn’t just his face that was wet; he was soaked to the bone and shivering, shaking uncontrollably.

"Mom?" he whimpered. The forest rose high around the car, dark and silent. The car ticked softly, rain pinging against the metal. He didn’t understand why he was on his side; he couldn’t see. He felt around, unclipped his seat belt. He found the window. It was shattered, sharp glass cutting his hands and knees as he climbed out. He slipped against the grass, back smacking against the side of the car, and whimpered again. "Mommy?"

The sound of branches breaking made his head twist around. There was a light bobbing through the trees toward him, approaching fast. It was a woman holding a lantern, her face soft and worried. A boy trotted along behind her, a few years older than Stiles, his face dark and serious.

"Derek," the woman said sharply, and the boy nodded, moving forward to curl his hand around Stiles', pulling him away from the car so the woman could crouch down and look inside. Stiles' breath hitched and he clutched at the boy's hand, fingers clenching so hard that his knuckles turned white. The woman straightened and walked over to them. She knelt down before Stiles and said, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

He looked at her, then at the boy holding his hand, and said, "Stiles."

The woman's brow furrowed, a sad smile stretching her lips. "You're the sheriff's son."

Stiles nodded once, his eyes slipping past the woman to look at the dark shape of the car. "My mom — "

"Don't look, Stiles," the woman said, putting her hand on his cheek and turning his face back to hers. She looked up at the boy and said, "Derek, run home. Call 911." The boy let go of Stiles' hand and disappeared into the trees, the sound of his footsteps quickly fading.

Stiles still shook, cold seeping into his bones, and now his lips started to tremble, eyes filling with tears. He knew what it meant that the woman wouldn’t tell him anything. She sighed softly and brushed her fingers against his forehead and he winced, coughing on a sob. The woman sighed again and got to her feet, putting her hands under his armpits and lifting him with ease. Stiles clutched at her neck and cried, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. She walked up to the road, one hand rubbing at his back, and they stood there in the dark, rain a soft sound all around them.

It seemed like hours before the emergency crews arrived, and maybe it was. Before they arrived, the woman set Stiles down, one hand smoothing over his wet hair. She crouched down to look at him again, her face all soft and harsh at once in the yellow light of the lantern. "Stiles," she said softly. "It’s going to be all right."

Stiles swiped at his nose, leaking snot. "But Mom — "

"Everyone loses someone important eventually," the woman said gently, her hand cupping his face. "It hurts, sweetheart, I know it does, but don't let this ruin you. Don't let grief change who you are." An ambulance rounded the corner, lights flashing. Stiles saw the light reflect off her eyes and for a moment they looked red, burning crimson. She stood, cupped his head again. "If you ever need help," she said, "just come to the woods."

"Stiles!" Someone shouted behind him and Stiles turned to see Deputy Graham running toward him. When he looked back over his shoulder, the woman was gone.

-

Later, Stiles sat numbly in a hospital waiting room with his head down, hands in his lap. He was tired, very tired. There was a pounding in his head; the doctor told him that he'd hit it on the window. Stiles didn’t remember that happening, but the doctor told him he probably wouldn't.

They wouldn’t let him see Mom. Deputy Graham sat next to him, her hand between his shoulder blades, but she wasn’t paying attention to him; she watched everyone who came into the waiting room, her body tense.

Stiles wanted to go to bed. He wanted his mom.

"Um."

Stiles' head jerked up and his eyes widened with surprise when he saw the boy from the woods standing next to him. He held a stuffed animal wolf in his hands, which he held out to Stiles, his cheeks red.

"Mom wanted me to give you this," he told Stiles roughly. "She said she's sorry." He hesitated before adding, "I am too."

"Thanks," Stiles mumbled, taking the proffered toy and clutching it to his chest. It was soft; it felt good to have something to hold on to. "I like wolves."

"Yeah," said the boy, grinning sharply. "Me too." His head came up like he was hearing something Stiles couldn’t. "I have to go. Um. Bye."

"Bye," Stiles echoed in a whisper.

It was another hour before Dad rushed in, soaked to the skin. He saw Stiles and picked him up, cradling him so tight it hurt. He cried against Stiles' cheek, big heaving sobs that shuddered through his entire body. Stiles had never seen his father cry before. It scared him into tears and he clutched at his dad with one hand, the other curled around the stuffed wolf, tears spilling down his round cheeks.

Outside the hospital, the rain poured down.

-

The night Stiles' father died, Stiles sat at the dining room table, his homework spread out before him. He worked on math, foot tapping distractedly, chewing absently on three Twizzlers at once. On top of the china cabinet in the corner, the police scanner crackled into life and he tilted his head toward it, not looking up from his equations.

"10-33 at 59 Easton Road," the dispatcher said. Her name was Megan; she worked the night shift and during the day she studied criminal justice at Beacon Hills Community College. She didn’t like Stiles that much; she never let him hang around like Ben, the day dispatcher did. "Security company requesting a check-in."

"10-33," Stiles repeated absently, kicking at the table leg. "Alarm going off."

"10-4, will check." That sounded like Rob — "Deputy Raymond to you, kid." He was new to the force, but one of his dad's favorite deputies. Dad said he had a good head on his shoulders.

"Boring," said Stiles, and scribbled down the answer to a quadratic equation.

More calls came in as Stiles finished his math and moved on to English. There was a 10-14 at 291 Oak Avenue — report of a prowler. Stiles knew that was where Mrs. Whittler lived; Dad said she was going blind and deaf and jumped at shadows. A 10-11 on Route 83, loose dog, turned out to be a paper bag blowing down the road. Then no calls came in for a while and he listened to the deputies talk about last night's Giants game. He wondered where his dad was. Probably doing paperwork down at the station and listening in just like he was.

The scanner had sat in the dining room since Stiles' mom died and Stiles' therapist told his father that one of the major reasons why Stiles was having panic attacks was because Stiles was afraid he was going to die too. The sheriff brought home the scanner so Stiles could hear everything he did and learn how nonviolent his job actually was — there was a lot more sitting around by the side of the road watching traffic than there were car chases and explosions. There used to be a handset, but the sheriff took it away after Stiles started using it to call him and ask him when he'd be home for dinner.

Stiles was just turning to his history reading when Megan's voice came back onto the scanner. "Campers in the preserve are reporting a 10-54, I repeat, 10-54."

"10-54," Stiles said, yawning. "10-54…" He frowned at his history textbook, not really interested in reading about trade routes in the 1850s. "10-54," he said to himself, tapping the page thoughtfully before his eyes went wide and he scrambled out of his chair, diving for his keys as voices poured in over the radio.

He sped on the way to Scott's house, the night air burning cold on his face. He wasn’t worried about getting stopped along the way; all the deputies had mobilized to the preserve. He heard his dad’s voice on the radio as he headed out the door, requesting more information. Scott's house was in the opposite direction of the preserve, anyway, so there was little chance he'll run into anyone.

Scott's window sat open and Stiles scrambled up the trellis on the side of the house, haphazardly crushing climbing roses beneath his sneakers. Mrs. McCall probably wouldn’t notice.

"Dude!" he said, popping his head into Scott's room. Scott, who'd been sitting at his computer desk, yelped and nearly fell over. Stiles was glad he wasn't jerking off; he’d burst in on that before and it was hella awkward.

"Stiles," Scott complained, rubbing at his elbow, which he smacked on his desk in surprise. "I told you to text me before you do that! What if I was naked?"

"I've seen your butt before," Stiles retorted, climbing inside. "It’s very cute."

Scott snorted and said, "What's going on?"

"Dude," Stiles said, spreading his hands wide, a grin slipping over his face. "There’s a dead body in the preserve."

To his disappointment, Scott did not look excited. "And?"

"And?" Stiles echoed. "Why do you need an and? It’s a dead body, Scott! Haven't you ever wanted to see one up close?"

Scott made a face. "I saw my grandpa at his wake."

"Boring," Stiles said, pointing a long finger at him. "So boring. Listen. This body. There was only half of it."

Scott made another face. He possessed an interesting range of them, though they didn’t hold a candle to any of Stiles' faces. "You want me to go with you, don't you."

"I'm going one way or the other," Stiles said brightly. "Isn't it time you brightened your young life with some blood and viscera?"

"No," Scott said, but he sighed and put on his sweatshirt. Stiles pumped his fist in the air.

-

Stiles parked at the end of one of the back roads that led into the preserve. It was the opposite side from where all of the law enforcement entered, which meant they were less likely to run into them. He and Scott crept through the trees and Scott moaned, "Aw, dude, it’s starting to rain!"

"You’re such a baby," Stiles said scornfully. "C'mon, stop pointing your flashlight at the trees. You think the body's going to be up there?"

"They could have hung themselves," Scott retorted moodily. "I didn't realize no one knew where this body was."

"I thought that was obvious when I said there was only half of it," Stiles said reasonably. "You need to listen."

"I hate you," Scott muttered.

"You love me," Stiles agreed.

They could hear the sound of the sheriff's department combing the woods a couple hundred yards away and they both crouched as lights swept the trees around them. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the line of deputies sweeping the trees, judged their distance, and elbowed Scott in the side. "C'mon!"

"Stiles!" Scott hissed behind him as Stiles took off through the trees, leaping fallen trees and scrambling over rocks. He slowed, realizing Scott wasn’t behind him, and twisted around to find himself alone, right in the path of the deputies. He swore, tripped over a branch, and smacked right into his father, who caught him by the shoulder and sighed.

"Why am I not surprised to see you here?"

"Because you know I'm infinitely curious?" Stiles grinned.

"Sounds about right," Dad said, digging his fingers into his shoulder. "Where's Scott?"

Stiles shrugged. "Probably at home, studying. He didn't want to came."

"Uh huh," his father said unbelievingly, and lifted his flashlight to shine it at the trees around them. His deputies moved off, scanning the forest, but his father shook him a little and said, "Where'd you park? I'm taking you home."

Stiles sighed; he was well and caught this time. He only hoped that Scott had the good sense to head back already. "West entrance."

His dad marched them off through the trees, hand firmly grasping Stiles' shoulder. Above them, the rain lightened, the clouds parting. The moon hung low in the sky, big and round and almost full tonight, and as the clouds disappeared, the light grew so strong they barely needed to use their flashlights.

"You gotta stop this," Dad said as they marched along. "This isn't a zoo, Stiles. You can’t just wander in for a good look. What if you'd contaminated the crime scene?"

"I'm sorry," Stiles said. "I just — " He stopped walking so abruptly that his dad ran into him. "Did you hear that?" he asked over his dad's swears.

"Hear what?" Dad retorted irritably. "If you think — "

"Shh," Stiles said, twisting around. "I keep hearing branches breaking." He pointed his flashlight at the trees and thought he saw something big and black slip out of sight. All the hair on the back of his neck stood up. "Dad?"

His father immediately went into cop mode, moving in front of Stiles, a hand going to his gun holster. "Who's out there?" he bellowed. "Came out with your hands where I can see 'em!"

There was no response. Stiles twisted again, hearing branches break behind them. "It’s circling," he whispered, and the sheriff turned with him.

"Could be a mountain lion," he speculated. "Grab yourself a stick and let's keep walking."

Swallowing nervously, Stiles picked up a hefty branch from the forest floor, eyes trying to follow the dark shape moving in the trees. It kept dipping into spots of deeper shadow, the forest going silent for long periods of time before they heard movement again. Stiles thought they were almost to the car when the moon came out again and the thing howled. It set Stiles' skin off in goosebumps and the sheriff exclaimed, "Go — run!"

He barely made it twenty yards before the thing came hurtling out of the trees at him, a massive dark beast with its mouth hanging open, jaw stretching, reaching for him. Stiles yelled in fright and swung the branch like a bat, connecting with the side of the monster's head with a dull thunk. The thing roared and bowled him over as it spun, heading for his dad instead. He heard his dad get a shot off — the noise echoed off the trees — and then his dad screamed and the sound pulled Stiles up, up, onto his feet. By the time he got to his dad, the thing was gone, the sound of rustling leaves already growing faint.

"Oh my god," Stiles moaned. He dropped his flashlight, but the moonlight was strong enough that he could see a wet, torn patch on his dad's jacket, just over his ribs. His dad was awake, staring up at the trees with a sort of astounded look on his face and Stiles scrambled for his radio, numb fingers barely able to press the call button. "999," he shouted, panic rising in his throat. "999! Officer down, he — my dad, Sheriff Stilinski, he’s hurt!"

Voices started pouring in over the radio, but Stiles couldn’t focus on them. He needed to stop the bleeding somehow so he ripped off his damp sweatshirt, bundling it up and pressing it against the weeping wound. His dad groaned and tried to push his hand away.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Dad said, pushing himself upright. "It’s not too deep."

"Dad," Stiles said, his throat tightening. His hands were shaking; his whole body was shaking. His father noticed and looped an arm around his shoulders while he spoke into his radio, reassuring his deputies that it was just a shallow wound and he'd have Stiles drive him to the hospital. Dad dropped his radio and said, "Breathe, Stiles. I'm okay."

"O-okay," Stiles repeated, toeing the cliff edge of a panic attack. "You're okay."

"I'm okay," the sheriff agreed. Behind them, somewhere not too far away, someone screamed in pain, and Stiles and his father both twisted around. "It got someone else," Dad said, his voice going tight and angry.

"That was Scott," Stiles said frantically, already on his feet.

"We need to find him," Dad said, pushing himself upright. Stiles steadied him as he swayed and they headed back into the forest, calling for Scott until they heard him moaning. He was lying under a tree, back against the bark, hands clasped over his side.

"Did it get you?" Stiles asked immediately, dropping into the leaves next to his best friend.

"What the hell was that?" Scott groaned.

"Beats me," Stiles said, helping him to his feet. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Language," Dad admonished and Stiles had to grin in nervous relief because his dad may have had a chunk ripped out of his side but at least he still had his dad pants on.

It took them nearly half an hour to get back to the Jeep; Scott and his dad were both hobbling, clutching at their sides in pain. Stiles danced around anxiously while they climbed into the Jeep; they'd barely closed the doors before he was reversing out of there as fast as he could and his dad sat in the back going, "Slow down, son; you're going to hurt someone."

"Too late for that," Stiles retorted, turning as soon as he could so he could kick the Jeep into second and fly off down the service road.

"I'm giving you a ticket later," his father muttered, wincing every time the Jeep hit a pothole.

Stiles made it to the hospital in record time, much to the irritation of his father, who lightly cuffed him on the back of the head as he climbed stiffly from the Jeep. Stiles followed him and Scott inside but had to sit in the waiting room for almost two hours before they reappeared again.

"Nothing to worry about," the sheriff declared before Stiles could ask. "Just needed some stitches and a rabies shot."

"Good," Stiles said anxiously. "All those zombie movies that start with a mutated strain of rabies — "

"Hold up," his father said wearily. "Can we just go home?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, grinning sharply with relief. "Yeah."

They piled back into the Jeep and Stiles dropped Scott off first. The sheriff waved at Melissa, who was standing on the front porch with her arms crossed over her chest, looking utterly unimpressed.

"He’s gonna get it," Stiles observed.

The sheriff sighed. "And you think you're not?"

"Aw, c'mon, Dad," Stiles wheedled as he pulled off down the street — at a very sedate pace now that the danger had passed. "I'd call tonight's adventure a great father-son bonding activity."

"Oh really? Because I'd call it breaking curfew and disturbing a crime scene."

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at his dad, sitting across the back seat. "Any updates from the woods? Did they find that body?"

Dad shook his head. "Nothing."

Stiles swallowed. "And — that thing?"

Dad shook his head again. "I don't want to think about that right now," he said quietly. "I want a tumbler of whiskey and my bed."

"Eliminate the whiskey and you've got yourself a deal," Stiles told him, which made his dad smile.

When they got to the house, his dad moved stiffly. He looked pale and tired, but he grabbed Stiles before he could disappear upstairs, wrapping his arm around Stiles' shoulder. "Stupid kid," he muttered into Stiles' hair. "I'm proud of you. You gave that thing a hell of a smack."

Stiles grinned sheepishly. "Thanks, Dad."

His father kissed his temple and pushed him toward the stairs. "Get some rest. I'll be up soon."

Stiles headed up the stairs but stopped at the top. He could hear his dad in the dining room, talking on the phone. Stiles crept back down the stairs, stopping halfway down to listen in.

" — some big beast," he was telling the person on the other end. "Didn't get a good look at it, but it was moving fast. Way too big to be a dog. I'm thinking a mountain lion." He was quiet for a while, listening, then he hissed through his teeth. "The campers that found the body said it looked like she'd been ripped apart, but a fucking animal? It must have been whatever got me. Thank fuck it didn't do any more damage."

Stiles held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. So something inhuman had killed the victim out in the preserve? He thought about the huge thing that had knocked him down, taken a bite out of his dad and Scott. It hadn’t looked like a mountain lion. It looked more...canine. His hands wanted to shake but he balled them into fists at his side, turning to go back upstairs as his dad's voice faded behind him.

"Nah, I'm fine, and the McCall kid's fine. Stiles didn't get hurt. You shoulda seen him swing at that monster…"

Stiles grinned as he headed into the bathroom to wash his teeth. Maybe he should forget about lacrosse and try out for baseball instead. Major League, he thought, swinging his toothbrush like a bat. His dad would like that.

-

In the morning, Stiles woke up fifteen minutes late and flew out of the house. His father's bedroom door was closed, but Stiles didn’t think much of it — he’d been out in the woods all night, after all. He probably had another evening shift.

Scott acted weird at school; he was all twitchy and kept jumping at noises that Stiles couldn’t hear. There was a new girl in their first class of the day. Stiles caught the star-struck look on Scott's face and rolled his eyes. He also caught the bewildered look on the girl's face when Scott passed her a pen without prompting, and grinned.

At lunch, though, Scott leaned across the table and said, "Hey, can we go out to the preserve after school? Mom was pissed because I couldn't find my inhaler. I think I dropped it in the woods."

A shudder ran down Stiles' spine as he thought about the woods and the monster lurking inside. "You sure about that, dude? You remember you got attacked out there last night, don't you?"

Scott shrugs. "Sure, but that was at night. We should be okay during the day, right?"

Stiles wasn’t sure that was right at all, but he somehow found himself driving Scott back into the preserve after they got out of classes that afternoon.

"Something weird’s going on," Scott said, as they climbed out of the Jeep and ducked under the rope blocking the road into the preserve.

"Weirder than normal?" Stiles snorted.

"Yeah," Scott said. "I'm hearing things, smelling things — "

"Smelling things?" Stiles scoffed. "What kind of things?"

Scott narrowed his eyes at him. "You've got a piece of mint mojito gum in your pocket."

"I don't have anything in my pockets," Stiles argued, slipping his hands into his sweatshirt pockets, feeling around the edges. His fingers brushed something hard and he pulled his hand out to see a desiccated piece of mint gum. "You — that was a lucky guess."

"No, it wasn't," Scott said mutinously. "What if I'm going into shock and I’ve got all these weird heightened senses because I’m about to die? What if the bite's infected?"

"Oh yeah," Stiles said flippantly, jumping over a log. "I think I know what it is." Scott swung around to stare at him, eyes wide, and Stiles continued, "It’s a specific kind of infection. Only happens on a full moon. It’s called lycanthropy." Scott frowns at him, bewildered, and Stiles grinned, holding his fingers up to his head like ears. He howled and Scott scowled, smacking at his arm. Stiles laughed. "I'm just sayin'! Friday's the full moon, dude."

"You're not helpful," Scott said, then paused and looked around. "I think this was where I was bitten. My inhaler must have fallen out when I fell over."

"Awesome," Stiles muttered as Scott knelt down, pushing his hands through the loam. Stiles scanned the trees nervously, afraid he was going to see a dark shape slipping through the woods toward them. He nearly fell over when he turned around and saw a dude standing in the trees a couple yards away, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Dude, dude!" Stiles hissed, smacking at Scott's shoulder until he twisted and saw the guy coming toward them.

"Hey," the stranger snapped, crunching angrily over leaves and fallen branches. "This is private property. What are you doing here?"

"Uh," Scott said, glancing over at Stiles for help, but Stiles was speechless. He’d been teetering on the edge of some great sexual epiphany for a while now, and he thought he’d just had it, because he would go to town on this dude, holy shit. The dude raised a skeptical eyebrow at them and Stiles felt a little faint. "We're looking for something?"

The guy lifted his arm and Stiles thought — well, he wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but he wasn’t expecting the guy to toss Scott his inhaler and stomp back off into the woods. Stiles stared at his back. "Who the hell was that?!"

"I think that was Derek Hale," Scott said, sounding a little dazed. "His family died in that fire a while ago."

"Oh, shit," Stiles mumbled. Derek had already disappeared amongst the trees, but Stiles kept staring like he could still see him. He remembered the Hale fire and the long hours Dad put in in the days following it; the case was still unsolved, as far as he knew.

They were quiet on the ride out of the preserve. Stiles dropped Scott off at Dr. Deaton's animal clinic for his shift and headed home. He frowned when he saw his father's cruiser still sitting in the driveway, but maybe his shift didn’t start until after dinner. Stiles was surprised he wasn’t down at the station, though; there had to be a lot going on, what with the dead body out in the preserve. Stiles wondered idly if anyone had found it yet. He wondered what half was missing.

The phone was ringing when he came into the house and he trotted into the kitchen, grabbing it off the hook. "Hello?"

"Oh, hey, Stiles," said a voice on the end of the line he recognized as Tessa, who usually watched the front desk at the station during the day. "Is your dad there? He was supposed to come on shift forty minutes ago and we haven't seen him yet."

The pit dropped out of Stiles' stomach but he managed to say, "Let me check upstairs. His cruiser's still here." Tessa made a noise of agreement and Stiles headed up the stairs. Nothing's wrong, he told himself. Dad's just tired from the long night and he didn't hear his alarm. It had happened before; they were both heavy sleepers.

Stiles knocked on his father's door, forcing his tongue to move so he could call, "Dad?"

There was no noise from within. Stiles pushed the door open and that was when the world went a little hazy around the edges. He dropped the phone and it seemed like it took hours to hit the floor, the batteries popping out of the back with a clatter. Everything went bright and dim in fast succession. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. He stood there for minutes, maybe hours, then someone had their hands on him, pulling him back, and the world popped back into existence.

He was crying. When did that start? When did the cops get here?

"Stiles, Stiles," someone was saying in his ear, soft. Deputy Graham. Just like the last time. It was happening again. Stiles made a noise, inhuman and unintelligible and saturated with despair. He fought Deputy Graham, clawed at her face when she tried to pull him out of the room. It took Deputy Raymond and Deputy White to haul him downstairs and force him into a seat at the kitchen table. Deputy Raymond kept a hand on the back of his neck and Deputy White got him a glass of water, but Stiles knocked it away. He couldn’t stop crying.

Time passed. Stiles didn’t know how long Deputy Raymond stood there with a hand on his shoulder, but the sun had gone down by the time Melissa McCall flew into the kitchen, her eyes bright with tears. Stiles choked at the sight of her, coughed on a sob, threw his arms around her neck.

"Oh, sweetheart," she kept saying. "Oh, no, no."

Over her shoulder, he saw them carry his father's body out the front door and he made a low, ruined noise. Someone said something about the animal in the woods and Stiles, horrified, thought of Scott. If his dad had — if the bite had -

"Scott," he said to Melissa, his voice shaking. "Scott, he — "

"He’s fine," Melissa said soothingly, smoothing a hand over his hair. "He’s at work."

"The bite," Stiles said weakly, his eyes filling with fresh tears. "My dad — "

"Scott's fine," Melissa reassured him, and made him stay in the kitchen while she went upstairs and packed him a bag of his things. He wasn’t allowed to stay in the house, wasn’t sure he wanted to anyway. He was having trouble feeling things; there was a great, vast, terrifying emptiness settling down over his shoulders. It made the world seem far away.

Deputy Graham gave him a tight hug before they left, and Melissa drove them to the clinic to pick up Scott. Scott sat in the back seat with bewildered tears trickling down his face, but he was alive, at least, so there was that. Stiles slept in the guest room, which he had never done before, but he didn’t think he could stand to stay in Scott's room. His heart hurt when he unzipped his bag to find his toothbrush and instead found the worn plush wolf he received the night his mom died. He fell asleep curled on his side, the wolf crushed up against his chest.

The next day slid by in a blur. He had to go to the station and answer questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Melissa sat by his side with her hand over his and got pissed at the detective because she didn’t think he was being sensitive enough. Stiles didn’t really pay attention; he moved on automatic, though his head came up when he heard a couple of deputies talking about the body in the woods. He was sitting out by the front desk while Melissa talked with Deputy Graham, and watched the two deputies standing further down the hall, their voices carrying up to him.

" — coroner collected hair from the wounds. Results came back in this morning."

"I know. Wolf, can you believe it?"

Stiles' mouth dropped open. Suddenly, yesterday's jokes about werewolves weren’t funny. Melissa came out of his dad's office with a box full of his possessions in her arms and that was enough to snap Stiles out of detective mode, another wave of misery overtaking him.

Melissa dropped him off at the house before her shift and Stiles crawled back into bed, drifting in and out of a heartbroken slumber. Scott came home from school and found him there — he stood in the doorway for a long while, biting at his lip before asking, "You wanna play a game?" and Stiles forced himself out of bed to go play a few mindless hours of Super Smash Brothers. He both wanted and hated the comfort of Scott’s presence, craved and dreaded being alone.

"Dude," Scott said during a snack break. "Look at this." He lifted up his shirt. There was a bandage over his side where the monster in the woods bit him, but when he lifted up the bandage, the skin underneath was whole and unmarred. It didn’t look like he was ever attacked. Stiles stared at his smooth skin, his heart banging in his chest. "What do you think?" Scott asked, sounding worried.

"I — " Stiles swallowed. "That's not right."

"I know," Scott hissed. "And I told you — I've been able to hear things, and smell things — "

Stiles' eyes went wide. "Jesus," he said. "What if that thing was a werewolf? I heard, at the station today — results came back on the thing that killed that girl. It was a wolf."

Scott's soft brown eyes widened. "It looked like a huge wolf," he whispered, sounding terrified.

"Holy shit," Stiles said, crawling backward, away from Scott. "The full moon's Friday night."

"What?" Scott almost wailed. "But I'm going to Lydia's party!" He shut his mouth almost immediately, looking like he wished he could take it back. "I mean, I asked Allison, but that — I'm not going to go. I'll stay here with you and — "

"No," Stiles said, forcing himself to smile. "I'll go. It'll probably be good, getting out of the house."

Scott's face softened, unhappiness creeping into his expression. "Dude," he said softly. "Please, if you — if you want, you can talk to me. You know that."

"What’s there to say?" Stiles asked, shrugging. He was still smiling, but it wasn’t amused now. "I made you came out in the woods with me and got you and Dad bit, and now Dad's dead. Simple."

"Stiles," Scott said. "It wasn’t — "

"Nope," Stiles said, faking brightness, swiping a hand over his eyes. "Blame’s one hundred percent in my court this time, Scott, and I'm paying for it now."

Scott looked like he wanted to say more, but Stiles got to his feet and headed back to the guest room. His sleep that night was uneasy. It was interrupted sometime in the early morning by Scott, who woke him up by basically falling on top of him, bouncing off the mattress.

"Go away," Stiles groaned, flapping his hands at him.

"Stiles," Scott said frantically, and the anxiety in his voice was enough to make Stiles pause. "Dude, I woke up in the middle of the woods!"

Stiles frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I went to bed and when I woke up I was out in the preserve!" Scott exclaimed, his brow furrowing. "And I saw it — I saw that thing!"

Stiles' stomach turned. "You did?"

"Yeah, I — fuck," Scott breathed, running a hand through his hair. "It was this weird stretched out wolf thing and it chased me, dude."

"Is that why you're all wet?"

"I jumped over a fence and landed in someone's pool," Scott shrugged.

Stiles sat up in bed, drawing his knees to his chest. "Something's up with you, dude."

"I keep telling you that!" Scott cried.

"I know, I know," Stiles said, trying to placate him. "I believe you, obviously."

Scott sighed, looking anxious. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. "I'll try to think of something."

Scott gave him a worried look. "Are you coming to school today?"

Stiles shook his head, swallowing back a lump of misery. "I'm supposed to go back down to the station," he said. "There’s a lawyer I need to talk to. About Dad's — Dad's — " He bit down hard on his lip, eyes burning. He couldn’t face this. He couldn’t do this. Scott's soft brown eyes went shiny and he surged forward, wrapping his arms around Stiles. Stiles clutched at his shoulders, tears leaking between tightly shut eyelids.

"Do you want Mom to go with you?" Scott asked softly. "You know she would."

"N-No," Stiles said shakily. He pulled away from Scott, wiping at his cheeks. "Thanks, dude, but I-I've gotta take care of this on my own."

As it turned out, he couldn’t; he wasn’t old enough. Melissa was there anyway because she'd been appointed his legal guardian. Stiles was glad she was there because the lawyer talked about a lot of stuff he didn’t understand — benefits and life insurance and stuff about the house. It was all a blur by the end, his vision grey around the edges, and Melissa took him outside to sit in the sunlight for a while, her hand rubbing up and down his spine.

"How are you doing?" she asked after a while, once Stiles could feel his fingertips again.

"I don't know," Stiles mumbled. Not well, probably. He was sixteen and in a few minutes they were supposed to go back inside and talk about his dad's burial and funeral arrangements.

Melissa hesitated before speaking again. "If you think it'd be helpful, there are people at the hospital you can talk to — grief counselors."

"I already have a psychiatrist," Stiles said miserably. His breath hitched. "Not sure I can pay for him now though."

"We'll figure it out," Melissa assured him, giving him a tight, one-armed hug.

It was an all-day affair at the station. Melissa drove them home and set about making supper. Scott was still at work. Stiles was exhausted, though, and he fell into bed, curling his arms around his stuffed animal wolf. It smelled like laundry detergent and, he pretended, like his mom. He couldn’t remember who gave it to him. A kid, he thought. One of the deputies’ kids, maybe. He tried to remember the kid's face and remembered a different one instead; a woman, her features soft and stern. If you ever need help, come to the woods, said a gentle voice in his head. Stiles felt phantom hands touch his cheeks and he stiffened, suddenly determined. He may have gotten his dad killed, but he'd kill the monster that did it, supernatural or not.

Stiles fell asleep curled on his side and when he woke up, the alarm clock on the nightstand told him it was almost midnight. He could hear Scott moving around out in the hall and waited for the sound of his bedroom door closing before he rose, a new determination flooding his veins. He toed on his sneakers and stepped out the front door, shutting it softly behind him. It was a twenty-minute jog to his house and when he got there he found everything locked up tight. Once he was inside, he headed straight for his father's study, ripping open the closet door to find his gun safe.

Stiles knew how to use a gun. Dad used to take him to the shooting range when he was younger and Stiles wasn’t a bad shot; he was a really good shot, actually. He knew how to take a gun apart, how to clean it, how to put it back together. He touched the shotgun, then shook his head and picked up a rifle instead. It was police-issue; he probably wasn’t supposed to still have it, but no one had asked for it back yet. He was sure his dad shot the wolf the other night, but that was with a small-caliber handgun; this rifle would wreak much more havoc.

He didn’t go upstairs; he didn’t even look in that direction, because thinking about it hurt and he had other things to do. Stiles just closed the closet door and drove the Jeep out to the edge of the preserve. He wasn’t sure where he was going, didn’t really have a plan except to find the monster and kill it. He thought, belatedly, that maybe he should have brought some kind of bait, and he probably should have at least sent Scott a text message telling him where he was because the chances of getting his throat ripped out and dying out there alone actually seemed quite high. Too late for that, though.

Stiles walked through the trees for nearly half an hour. It was very dark; there were clouds covering the moon, and he didn’t quite dare use his flashlight — it'd make carrying the rifle difficult, anyway. He didn’t like the forest, though; it was too quiet. Night animals and birds cried off in the distance and the noises echoed through the trees. It was unsettling. He thought he was nearly to the middle of the preserve when someone behind him quietly asked, "What are you doing out here?"

Stiles whipped around, raising his rifle in one smooth movement, and there was Derek Hale, his face mostly hidden in shadow. The moon had reappeared, streaking Derek’s face with black and silver. He wondered how Derek managed to sneak up on him; he hadn’t heard leaves rustling or anything. Stiles didn’t miss Derek's sarcastic eyebrow raise at the gun, though. "It isn’t hunting season," Derek told him mildly.

"I'm aware of that," Stiles snapped. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"You were out here a couple of days ago," Derek replied calmly. "I told you then. This is private property."

"Pretty sure this is county property," Stiles retorted. "And you didn't answer my question."

"You didn’t answer mine," Derek said. He lifted his arms, folding his arms over his chest. Stiles heard his leather jacket creak with the movement.

"Something out here killed my dad," Stiles said. It was the first time he’d had to tell anyone, the first time he’d said the words out loud. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. Derek shifted slowly and Stiles was suddenly reminded of his earlier conversation with Scott. Werewolves. The full moon. Why was Derek out here so late? He hadn’t really believed the words when he spoke them earlier, but now, in the darkness, remembering the thing that bit his dad — he was scared.

"I'm sorry," Derek said, his voice low, "but you're not going to find what you're looking for out here."

"How do you know what I'm looking for?" Stiles demanded, his fingers tightening around the rifle. He was still holding it, pointed levelly at Derek, and his arms were getting tired. Derek sure was acting extremely casual for a dude with a gun pointed at him. He didn’t respond to Stiles' question, just watched him evenly. Stiles hesitated, then lowered the gun. "I met a woman out here once," he told Derek, and he didn’t know why. "She told me to come to the woods if I ever needed help."

Derek seemed to flinch. "I can’t help you," he said, "and she can’t either."

"I figured it was a long shot," Stiles agreed despondently. "I don't know what to do."

Derek hesitated before saying, "Your father was the sheriff." Stiles looked at him sharply and Derek continued, "I heard about it. In town. Someone said he was bitten by an animal." Stiles sucked in a hurt breath and nodded. Derek gave him an even look. "What did you see?"

Stiles hesitated again. He hadn’t told anyone what he saw. Even Scott only caught a glimpse of it. When the detective at the station asked him what he saw, Stiles said, "I think it was a mountain lion." He wasn’t stupid; he knew there were no wolves in California, and what he saw wasn’t a wolf…but it wasn’t a mountain lion, either. Derek watched him blankly, arms still folded across his chest.

He decided to tell Derek. Why not, right? He didn’t know Derek; it didn’t matter if Derek judged him for the shit that was about to came out of his mouth. It was weird, though — not just that Derek was out here in the woods in the middle of the night — but how easy it was to talk to him. Whenever he tried to talk to Lydia, he turned into a nervous, babbling mess, and Derek was like ten times hotter. Maybe it was the grief; it had driven purpose into his stupid teenage life.

"I saw a monster," Stiles told Derek quietly. Derek raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Stiles bit his lip and continued, "It — it was like a huge wolf, but not. It wasn't right. Its legs were too long and its face — it was like halfway human. I hit it," he said, suddenly, viciously triumphant. "I hit it and my dad shot it, but it got away and it — it bit Scott." All the victory rushed out of him, as quickly as it came.

"Scott's the kid you were with the other day," Derek said. It wasn’t really a question, but Stiles nodded anyway. Derek gave him a long look, but there was no disbelief in his expression. He said, "And now you're going to shoot it?"

"Yes," Stiles said defiantly.

"You wouldn’t have any luck," Derek told him. He looked angry suddenly, but he wasn’t looking at Stiles — he was looking at the forest around them, glaring at the trees like they personally offended him.

"You know something," Stiles said. Derek's eyes swung to him, pale and bright in the moonlight.

"Go home," Derek told him.

"No," Stiles said stubbornly. "This thing killed my dad and I'm going to kill it."

Derek glared at him and Stiles glared back, all the goodwill seeping out of him. He wouldn’t be stopped, not by some weird dude who apparently lived in the forest. "I'll tell you one thing," Derek said flatly, "because your father was kind when my family died. You can’t kill it. Not with your weapons. Not with the way you came smashing through the trees. Not with your lack of grace and your weak human body. You try going after it and you'll be dead before you know what happened."

"Is that a threat?" Stiles asked angrily. He gripped at the rifle, half raised it but didn’t aim.

"Go home," Derek told him again, his face softening slightly. "There’s no reason for another innocent person to die."

Pain tightened Stiles' chest, wrapping cold fingers around his heart. "I don't have anything left," he said, teeth clenched so hard it hurt. Some mad part of him wished Derek would do something — make him angry, make a move to attack, fucking reveal himself as the monster, just so Stiles had an excuse to kill something. He wanted someone to hurt as much as he was right now.

"You have friends," Derek said, voice so soft Stiles could barely hear it. "That's more than I can say."

Stiles looked down at the ground, blinking furiously. When he looked up, Derek was gone. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Where the hell are you?"

He listened hard but there was only the sound of the wind shifting the branches and the chirping of crickets. Stiles exhaled shakily and shouldered the rifle. Derek was probably standing behind some tree, watching him with a smirk, but Stiles didn’t care. He was tired suddenly, and cold, so he turned, heading back the way he came. The forest was quiet the entire way back to the Jeep. The ride home was even quieter and the McCall house was as silent as a tomb. Stiles climbed the stairs without making a noise and crawled into bed. He wanted to cry but before he could even start, his head hit the pillow and he was out like a light.

-

"I don't think we should go to the party," Stiles said as Scott paced around his bedroom agitatedly. Stiles sat on Scott's bed with his laptop on his knees. While Scott was at school, Stiles sat on the McCall's couch, trying to find all the information he could on werewolves. As it turned out, figuring out what was true and what was part of elaborate role-playing fantasy worlds was really difficult. He wasn’t sure he had learned anything concrete, but he knew one thing – Scott was dangerous. Going to the party, when the moon was full, might be a disaster. Based on Stiles' quasi-research and Scott waking up in the woods and what Derek said last night, Stiles was ninety-nine percent sure Scott was a werewolf. He was already irritable and full of energy; he wouldn’t stop ranging around his room. Stiles found it unsettling; he was used to being the one who couldn’t stop moving.

"Where did you go last night?" Scott asked instead of addressing the party issue. He scratched at his hair. "I heard you get up."

Stiles shrugged. "I needed to get out of the house." Scott narrowed his eyes at him but didn’t contest this. Stiles tried again. "I really don't think going to the party was a good idea, dude."

"Allison's going," Scott said, like that was a perfect reason. Stiles scowled because Scott probably thought it was.

"Scott, you're cursed," Stiles snapped, setting aside his laptop and clambering to his feet. "The full moon's tonight and your bloodlust will be at its highest."

Scott scowled at him. "Why are you trying to ruin this for me? I finally meet a girl who wants to date me, I made first line — "

"I'm trying to keep you safe!" Stiles said furiously.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Scott shot back. "Rip a couple of people apart?"

"Maybe, yes!" Stiles shouted. "I told you, your bloodlust — " He cut himself off, throwing up his hands. "Where's your phone? You have to cancel this date." He grabbed Scott's backpack, searching through the pockets.

"Stop that!" Scott snarled, grabbing at his arms. Stiles ducked away from him, snatching Scott's phone out from underneath his math book. Scott slammed into him, driving his shoulder into Stiles' chest like a linebacker and Stiles smacked into the wall, cracking his head against the sheetrock so hard he saw stars. He crumpled to the floor, trying to get his breath back. Scott froze above him, his mouth opening and closing.

"I — sorry," Scott muttered finally, backing toward the door. "Sorry."

Stiles couldn’t look at him. He heard Scott head down the stairs, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. He sat on the floor for a long time, eyes blurring with tears. That wasn't Scott. That was whatever was inside him now, angry and strong. Stiles was scared.

-

He was sitting in his room when Scott came home, stumbling up the steps and into his room. It was still relatively early; Stiles could see the moon over the trees, still rising. He listened to Scott thumping around, his skin crawling. Scott could be drunk, theoretically. He could also be — Stiles wasn’t sure what to call it. Possessed? Transformed? Shifted? He could be in danger just sitting there. That thing in the woods killed his dad with just one bite. What if Scott attacked him? He didn’t want to die. But what if Scott needed his help?

Stiles gritted his teeth. He was scared. He was scared of Scott and what he could become, but he couldn’t just sit there. Stiles crept to his feet instead, treading silently down the stairs to the spot by the front door where a baseball bat leaned. He went back upstairs carefully, sneaking down the hall toward Scott's room, and knocked on the door very gently.

"Scott?" he called, raising the bat.

There was a shuffling on the other side of the door and then he heard Scott. "Go away."

Stiles swallowed. "Scott, buddy, let me in."

"No," Scott groaned.

"Did something happen at the party? Did you hurt someone?"

"No, just shut up!" Scott snapped. Something clattered and then all Stiles could hear was silence. He leaned against the door, listening hard.

"Scott? Scott?" There was no answer. Stiles took a deep breath and turned the knob, pushing the door open with his knee so he could dart in with the baseball bat lifted to his shoulders. Scott's room was empty but his window hung wide open, the curtains fluttering in the cool winter breeze. Stiles lowered the bat.

"Shit."

-

It took Stiles a long time to fall asleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed for hours, listening hard, every small noise in the house making him jump. He wished Melissa wasn't working a late shift, just so there'd be someone else in the house, the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know what to do about Scott, not brave enough to go charging after him. He could be anywhere.

He twisted and turned and thought about his dad. If he hadn't died, would this have happened to him too? Would his personality have changed on the full moon? It was his fault this was happening to Scott, his fault that his dad was dead.

The pain burned in his chest again, cold as ice. He kept thinking that he was doing well, that he was going to be fine, but then he’d remember his dad was dead — that Stiles got him killed. The world kept doing that worrying thing where it slowed down to a crawl around him, allowed him to think through every horrible detail of it, and then ten minutes later he was fine and arguing with Scott over Cheetos. It had only been three days.

He couldn’t remember how long it took him to get over his mother's death because he still wasn’t over it. He still had nightmares about waking up in the overturned car in the rain and darkness, but now his father sat in the front seat and his mom was next to him. He was scared the pain was never going to go away.

When Stiles woke up, Scott sat cross-legged on the end of his bed, drumming his fingers anxiously against his knees. Stiles regarded him cautiously. Scott gave him a worried smile.

"Hi," he said in a small voice.

"Hi," Stiles echoed stiffly. He wished he hadn't left the baseball bat leaning up against the dresser. His eyes slid back to Scott. "What's up?" He tried to sound casual, but mostly just sounded suspicious.

"I'm sorry," Scott said immediately. "Stiles, I'm really sorry about yesterday."

"Okay," Stiles said, not relaxing. "And what happened last night?"

Scott groaned. "I don't know. I was at the party with Allison and I just — everything got really intense."

"If this is a sex story, I don't want to hear it," Stiles said.

"No," Scott shook his head. "I don't know. Everything got all confusing and I came back here and — and at one point I looked in the mirror and my eyes were yellow, dude!"

"And then you jumped out the window," Stiles pointed out.

"I had to move," Scott said. "I felt like I was gonna burst out of my skin. I went out into the woods and — " Scott stilled, like he was remembering. "Derek was there."

"In the woods?"

"In the woods and at the party," Scott blinked. "He – he’s one of them too, Stiles. He’s a werewolf. Like me." Scott looked up at the ceiling, looking horrified.

"Rewind!" Stiles demanded furiously. "You said Derek Hale is a werewolf?"

"Yeah," Scott said solemnly. "He said we're brothers now. He said the bite's a gift. And — and there were these people. He called them hunters. They track werewolves and kill them. One of them shot me with an arrow!" He pushed up his sleeve and showed Stiles a round puncture mark on his arm that was mostly healed.

Stiles stared at the wound, fury building in his head. He couldn’t even summon up the strength to feel sorry Scott got hurt because Derek Hale was a werewolf. Derek Hale was a werewolf and he’d stood out in the woods with Stiles and pretended to feel sorry for him and he was probably the fucker that had killed his dad! He probably pissed himself laughing at Stiles' misery. And to stand out there and tell Scott the bite was a fucking gift? He was going to pay. He was going to fucking pay. Stiles struggled out of bed, shoving Scott aside.

"Stiles," Scott said carefully, watching him pull on his jeans. "What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna go out there," Stiles replied shortly, jerking on his sweatshirt. "I'm gonna find Derek Hale, and I'm gonna kill him."

"Hey, no," Scott protested, clambering to his feet. "You can’t! Derek's the only one who can tell me what's going on! He might know how to fix me!"

"I’ll figure out how to fix you!" Stiles snapped. "I started this whole mess, and I'll straighten it out. He’s dying, dude. He killed my dad for no reason, and he hurt you and now you're cursed."

"No!" Scott moved to block the doorway as Stiles went to leave. "You're not going to start killing people, Stiles. You think that's what your dad would want?"

Stiles froze. "That's a low blow," he said through gritted teeth.

Scott winced like he agreed, but pressed on, "Wait a few days, please? Think about it for a while. Don't do this when you're angry."

Stiles took a step back, his face softening with misery. "Fuck," he mumbled.

"Just go to bed," Scott pleaded. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Yeah," Stiles muttered, retreating. "Okay."

Scott made sure Stiles undressed and got back into bed before he disappeared to his own room. Stiles curled on his side, clutching his wolf to his chest, head and heart pounding with all the information he’d just received. Scott was right, in a way. He needed to wait until his head cleared. Dad always said you should never go into a fight angry. He needed to plan. Derek Hale was going to pay.

-

He rose a few hours later. It was a Saturday so Scott was home, but Stiles avoided him for most the day, spending the afternoon in his room with the door shut. He wasn’t sure how to feel about Scott right now. Scott still scared him; there was a bruise forming just above his heart where Scott slammed into him, and there was probably another on his back from hitting the wall. He knew Scott was confused right now, but Stiles was confused too, conflicted. He needed time to himself to think.

Stiles spent all day on his computer, following every path he could find for information on werewolves. It was just as hard as the first time he tried; there was no way to separate the truth from the myth but he opened a text document and pasted in everything and anything he thought might be helpful.

There was a knock on the door in the early evening. He expected it to be Melissa telling him dinner was ready, but it was Scott, looking worried again.

"I went to see Derek," he blurted, "and before you get mad, listen to me. I could smell blood there, at his house."

"At the old Hale house?" Stiles asked, frowning.

Scott nodded fervently. "A lot of it, Stiles. I think I know where the other half of that body is."

"Oh my god," Stiles said, his mouth falling open. "Derek must have killed her. The deputies at the station said that it was a wolf. It was him, Scott, he killed her!"

Scott nodded again. "And if we can prove it — "

"He'll go to jail!" Stiles said, delighted. "Dude!"

-

They headed up to the house after dinner, when night had fallen. The road up to the old Hale house was winding and mostly overgrown, but someone had clearly been driving on it recently. Stiles pulled off the road about a mile before the house and they sat in the dark, waiting for any sign of Derek. Eventually a car came down the drive, heading from the direction of the house, and Scott punched his arm as it passed. "That was him," he said firmly.

"You sure?"

Scott nodded. "I've got good night vision now."

"All right." Stiles nodded grimly and turned on the Jeep, driving fast up the road. There was no telling how much time they had. He pulled up in front of the blackened skeleton of the old house, shuddering as he glanced up at the dark shadow of it looming over them. Scott jumped out of the car and bent his head around, inhaling deeply.

"Over there," he said suddenly, pointing toward the side of the house. They walked over to find a circular patch of dirt that had clearly been recently disturbed.

Stiles exhaled. "I'll get the shovels."

-

It took maybe two hours to reach the body. They were both sweating and covered in dirt by the time they hit a bundle wrapped in burlap. Stiles glanced over at Scott, who had his arm over the lower half of his face.

"It reeks, dude," Scott told him, wincing. Stiles gritted his teeth and pulled back the burlap.

"What the — "

It was a dog. Or maybe a wolf. The top half of one, anyway. Stiles couldn’t tell, but there was something weird about it. "What the fuck, dude."

"It doesn’t smell right," Scott said, looking sick.

"What did that even mean?" Stiles demanded.

"I don't know." Scott shook his head. "I've just got — this feeling."

"We can’t call the cops about this!" Stiles said angrily. "It isn’t illegal to bury your dog!" He pulled himself out of the hole and glared down at the rotting animal.

Scott pulled himself up after Stiles and flopped down next to him, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry, dude. I guess I haven't really developed my nose yet."

"It’s all right," Stiles sighed. "I just was hoping — well. We should get out of — " He cut himself off, eyes narrowing as he glanced across the hole. There was a flower sticking out of the dirt on the opposite side, blue and lopsided. "I've seen that."

"What?" Scott looked over. "The flower?"

"Yeah, when I was looking up stuff about werewolves," Stiles said, getting to his feet. "It’s called wolfsbane. All of the legends say it’s poisonous to werewolves." He bent down and plucked at the flower. It came out of the dirt easily, bringing along with it a rough woven rope. "Dude."

Scott frowned, watching him pull the rope from the ground, following it around the grave in a spiral. In the end, Stiles held about fifty feet of rope in his arms, rough hemp, and every few feet there was a wolfsbane blossom woven in. He shook the bundle. "What do you think it was doing?"

Scott went very still, looking into the grave. He swallowed. "I think I know."

Stiles dropped the bundle of rope and headed to the edge of the grave, freezing when he glanced in. The dog was gone. Instead, there lay the top half of a young woman's body. She stared up at them with an accusing expression on her face, her eyes flat and lifeless. Stiles stumbled backwards, swallowing hard to keep his dinner down. "Holy shit, holy shit."

"Call the station," Scott said, waving his arms at him. "Quick, before Derek gets back!"

-

Derek Hale pulled up in front of the house right as the coroner's team was pulling the body out of the grave. The way he got tackled when he got out of his car gave Stiles no end of satisfaction. He and Scott sat on the hood of the Jeep, watching workers from the sheriff's department mill around. Deputy Graham was supposed to be watching them, but she'd already taken their statements and she had her back to them, watching the coroner’s team load the girl's body into their van. Stiles nudged Scott in the ribs and nodded toward the cruiser Derek had been shoved into.

"No!" Scott hissed, but Stiles was already jumping off the hood and trotting across the yard. He glanced around and slipped into the front seat of the cruiser, twisting around to look at Derek through the grille. Derek stared back at him, his expression stormy. Stiles couldn’t believe he’d found him attractive.

"How does it feel, asshat?" Stiles hissed at him, hatred roiling in his gut. "You didn't think anyone would find out, huh?"

Derek didn’t say anything; he just stared at Stiles, glowering at him through the metal partition.

"Why'd you kill her?" Stiles snapped. "Because she was a werewolf too? Was she a threat? Why'd you kill my dad? Why did you bite Scott? We didn't do anything to you! God, you must have thought it was so funny the other night in the woods, standing there knowing you did it while I was trying to hunt you down."

"I didn't kill anyone," Derek said, his voice low. He lowered his brow, glaring at Stiles.

"Yeah, right." Stiles laughed harshly. "Have fun rotting in jail, you fucker."

He twisted back around, scrambling out of the cruiser, and smacked right into Deputy Graham. She sighed, pushing him in the direction of the Jeep. "Go home, Stiles. Leave this to us."

-

In the morning, Stiles woke early, but he didn’t get out of bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling blankly. The triumph of catching Derek faded after they got home last night and Melissa gently reminded them that today was the day of his dad's funeral. Now he laid in bed and just felt sort of empty.

He rose eventually, forced himself to unfold from the bed. He showered, brushed his teeth, put on a dark suit he last wore to his great-aunt's funeral. He stood in front of the mirror and adjusted his dark tie, then stood there for a while. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks were looking a little less full; he didn't eat much that past week, despite Melissa's best attempts. The suit made him look a lot older than he was.

Someone knocked on the doorframe and he narrowed his eyes when he saw Scott. Scott smiled faintly, though the look faded when he saw Stiles' expression. His dark eyes moved toward the bed; Stiles' bag sat at the end of it, all of his things packed.

"Are you going somewhere?" Scott asked uncertainly.

"Yeah," Stiles said casually. "I just thought that I'd head back home."

"Home?" Scott repeated, looking worried. "Are you sure? You know you can stay here as long as you want."

"I know," Stiles replied. "I just — I haven't been sleeping well, and I think I'd sleep better at home."

Scott shifted his weight from foot to foot, chewing anxiously at his lip. "Do you want me to come stay with you?"

"No," said Stiles, harsher than he meant to be. Scott blinked, looking a little wounded, and Stiles said, softer, "No, thanks. I need some time to myself."

"Oh," Scott said, the worry not lifting from his face. "Okay." He looked like he wanted to say more, but Melissa appeared in the doorway behind him and asked, "Are you guys ready to go?"

Scott insisted on riding to the cemetery with Stiles in the Jeep and Stiles had to scramble to get to the back because he'd kind of forgotten that he'd left the rifle sitting there. Bad gun safety, his dad would have said, Stiles thought with a pang of guilt as he hid the gun under an old sweatshirt. Scott twisted around and asked, "What's taking you?"

"Nothing," Stiles said hurriedly, slamming the back door and hurrying around to the driver's side.

"When'd you pick up the Jeep, anyway?" Scott asked as they back out of the driveway. "I woke up the other morning and it was here."

Stiles shrugged. "I couldn't sleep the other night, so I went for a walk. I told you; you said you heard me get up."

"Stiles," Scott said, suddenly dead serious. "Did you go into the woods?"

"No," Stiles lied. "I went to the station and hung out with the dispatcher."

"Oh," Scott said, looking hurt again.

They didn’t speak again until they reached the cemetery. Stiles parked along the side of the road, but didn’t get out. If he turned his head, he could see the hearse parked among the rows of headstones. There were already people walking toward the gravesite, people he had known all his life dressed in somber clothes, his father's deputies dressed in their dress uniforms. He thought about how his dad's body was sitting in a coffin inside that hearse, how soon he was going to be in the ground, and it hit him suddenly. His dad was dead.

After that first, horrible day, he'd sort of disconnected himself from the idea. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong, that he was just staying with Scott while his dad was away at a conference or something. All the stuff with the lawyer, all the shit with Derek — it was just a weird, unrelated adventure. Now he sat in the car, seeing the consequences of his actions. He got his dad killed and now he was an orphan.

"Stiles?" Scott asked uncertainly. "Are you okay?"

"I — no," Stiles groaned, his breath coming quick. "No, fuck, no. Dad's dead. What am I gonna do? I'm only sixteen, fuck!"

"Stiles," Scott said again, sounding worried, "calm down, dude. You're going to give yourself a — "

Panic attack was probably what he was going to say, but it was already hitting Stiles, his pulse roaring in his ears. He bent in half, forehead pressed against the steering wheel while his mouth gaped open, trying to breathe.

"Stiles," Scott whispered. "What do you want me to do?"

Stiles reached for him, fingers stretching out, and Scott grabbed his hands, fingers curling around Stiles’ so tight it almost hurt. Stiles focused on the pain, tried not be scared about the way his vision wavered, and the world eventually steadied as he caught his breath. Scott didn’t let go of his hands.

"You okay?" he asked eventually.

Stiles straightened and wiped a hand over his eyes, nodding. They sat in the car for a few more minutes. Melissa appeared outside of Scott's window, tapping on her watch, but her face softened when she saw Stiles, and she moved away with a nod when Scott waved at her. Stiles finally felt strong enough to head into the cemetery, firmly ignoring the way his legs shook when they hit the ground. Scott looped an arm around his shoulders without a word.

The funeral was awful. Stiles passed most of it in a dull grey haze, the words of the preacher a faint buzz in his ears. All he could do was stare at the coffin and think Dad's in there. It was almost surreal. He jumped when a line of riflemen shot a salute, and jumped again when someone else handed him a folded up American flag. He clutched it to his chest absently, shook his head when he was asked if there was anything he wanted to say. He had nothing in him except apologies. His eyes burned.

His dad was lowered into his grave and Stiles threw the first handful of dirt down onto him. The sound of the soil hitting the polished wood made his stomach heave and he had to run, run for the edge of the woods so he could puke into the dead leaves. When he turned around, Scott stood a few yards back, his mouth twisted in sympathy. He didn’t say anything, though, and Stiles was very, very grateful for that.

There was a reception in the basement of the church Stiles' parents got married in. He got hugged by a lot of people he only vaguely knew, heard "I'm sorry for your loss" so many times the words start sounding like an alien language. He didn’t eat any of the food and slipped out unnoticed long before the reception ended.

Stiles sat in the jeep for a long time, hands smoothing over the flag folded in his lap. His dad had been a Marine, once upon a time. There used to be a picture of him hanging on the wall in the living room, solid muscle in camouflage, arm looped around Stiles' mom's waist. The picture came down after his mom died, as did every other picture of her. He didn’t know where they were, he realized, suddenly terrified. What if his dad had gotten rid of them all and Stiles had nothing left except the faded portrait of her he kept his wallet?

The thought was what finally made him leave, kick the Jeep into first gear and pull out of the church parking lot. The house was so quiet when he got home, silence only broken by the constant static of the police scanner in the dining room. Stiles stomped into the dining room and ripped the plug out of the wall, carrying it into the kitchen and slamming it into the trash. Ironic, he thought furiously. His dad brought the thing home so Stiles could hear just how safe his job was, and it was Stiles listening to the fucking thing that got him killed. He almost took it out to the backyard and lit it on fire, but headed for his dad's study instead.

Stiles found the box of his mom's pictures, still in their frames, collecting dust in a box at the top of the closet. He sat down on the floor and fanned the photographs out around him. There were so many pictures, some of which he didn’t think he’d seen before. There was his dad as a Marine, and there was their wedding day. His mom had awful poofy bangs. There were old family photos. They used to go to Sears every fall and get a family portrait done, and Mom would send out a little wallet-sized photo with each of her Christmas cards. 

At the bottom of the box, beneath everything, there were newspaper clippings. An old, browning folder contained a copy of the accident report from the night Mom died and it looked worn, like someone had held it many, many times. Stiles wondered how many nights his dad sat down there and read the report, like there was anything he could have possibly done. How many nights did he drink until he cried? Far too many, probably.

He sat in the office until the light faded. Someone knocked on the door at some point in the afternoon, but Stiles didn’t get up to answer. There was no one he wanted to talk to.

Stiles made dinner from what hadn’t gone bad in the fridge and threw out what was rotten. He watched television with the lights off and the blinds closed; he didn’t want to invite more well-wishers. Someone tried around seven, knocking on the door insistently, but he didn’t answer. If it was anyone important, they'd call him. He didn’t need a million casseroles baked by old ladies. He could take care of himself.

The night was harder. He went upstairs for the first time. He couldn’t bring himself to look into his dad's room. If he did, Stiles might start remembering the pale grey cast to Dad's skin, the way his eyes were half open and empty — no. Stiles shook his head firmly and went to brush his teeth.

The house was very quiet, though. He had spend hundreds of nights at home alone, but he’d never been alone like this. He sat in his bed in the dark with his laptop on his knees and felt like a beacon floating far off at sea, but without even the sound of the waves to soothe him. Stiles had to get up and open the window, let in the sounds of the night. It was cold out, raining now. He was glad it hadn’t rained at the funeral.

Stiles was crying again before he even realized it. It was late. He was alone, truly alone, for the first time since his dad died, and it hurt so badly. He gave in to the pain, pushed his laptop away and curled onto his side. His arms sought out and wrapped around the wolf plush and he pressed his face into its worn fur, breathing in deep and wet. He fell asleep like that, curled into himself, bones steeped in misery.

Outside his window, the rain kept falling.

-

Stiles went back to school the next day. Melissa had tried to tell him that he could take as many days as he needed; that she'd talked to the school and sorted out everything with them. Stiles wanted to go back, though; he needed some semblance of normalcy. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself at home; with Derek Hale in jail, he didn’t need to sit around and plot out revenge. Now he was just a kid with no parents.

Classes were fine. Most of the teachers moved around him like he was made of glass. Harris was a dick like always, and it was kind of a relief. Stiles thought he almost saw something like kinship in his eyes, but then it was weird, so he balled up a piece of paper and bounced it off the back of Harris' skull as he wrote on the board. The ensuing yelling was like music to his ears.

At lunch, he avoided Scott as best he could, but Scott still found him toward the end of the period, thumping down in the seat across from him and asking, "How are you doing?"

Stiles sighed softly. "Fine."

"Okay." Scott hesitated before saying, "Do you remember how I said I saw people out on the woods on the full moon?"

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah. Uh…hunters, right?"

Scott nodded solemnly. "Yeah, and one of them shot me. Well, I saw him this morning and Stiles — he was Allison's dad."

"What? No way!" Stiles spun in his seat, staring around the cafeteria until he spotted Allison sitting with Lydia and Jackson and the rest of the popular kids. "You think she's one too?"

"What if she is?" Scott asked, suddenly distraught. Stiles realized the thought never occurred to him. "Oh, god, what if she is?"

"Dude, calm down," Stiles hissed, looking around hurriedly. "You gotta keep your heart rate down." He watched Scott give a shuddery exhale. He was still afraid of Scott, worried about what he was capable of, but he was still Stiles' best friend. He couldn’t just abandon him, especially as all of this was his fault. "Do you want me to talk to her? See if I can get anything out of her?"

Scott tossed Allison a mournful look and said, "Yeah, I guess. If you would."

"For you, anything," Stiles sighed.

Econ was his last class of the day, and when the final bell rang, Finstock beckoned him over. "Bolinski," Finstock said, and he was still half-shouting in that aggressive way of his, but he also sounded the most sincere Stiles had ever heard him. "You're coming to practice tonight, right?"

"Uh," Stiles said, caught off guard. "I missed tryouts, coach."

"Eh," Finstock said, waving his hand in an expressive way. "Extenuating circumstances. I want to see you there. It’s good to keep moving."

Stiles wondered, for a moment, if the school put him up to this, but Finstock didn’t listen to anyone. The idea that he was actually concerned about Stiles was a little strange, but he probably had a point. If Stiles didn’t go to practice, he'd probably just sit at home and watch television. "Okay," he said, and Finstock clapped him on the shoulder.

"Atta boy!"

As Stiles headed out to the parking lot to drop off his backpack, he caught sight of Allison sitting out in front of the school, hands folded in her lap. Stiles looked around and saw no sign of Lydia or the others, so he sidled over to Allison and dropped down on the bench next to her. She gave him a cautious smile.

"Stiles. Hi."

"Hey," Stiles greeted, leaning back on his elbows. "How's it going?"

"Good," she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Um. I heard about your dad. I'm really sorry."

Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, nodding shortly. "Me too." He kicked at the concrete. "Anyway. You just moved here, right? Where were you before?"

"San Francisco," Allison replied. "I like it up here, though. It’s quieter."

It used to be, Stiles thought unhappily. Out loud he asked, "What do your parents do?"

"Mom's not working right now," Allison said with a shrug, "but Dad's a firearms dealer." She flushed faintly, like it was embarrassing. "He’s licensed, I mean. He sells guns to the government."

"Ah," Stiles said, and that was it, right there, wasn’t it? "My dad used to take me shooting," he told her casually. "Do you and your dad ever go?"

"Once in a while," Allison smiled. "I'm a pretty good shot."

"Me too," Stiles said smugly, and Allison laughed.

They fell into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Stiles hadn’t spoken to Allison since her first day, just a quick hi, but she seemed nice. Stiles had a lot of trouble seeing her as the type to stalk around the woods with a gun, shooting at teenagers, but weirder things had happened, he supposed.

"Can I ask you something?" Allison asked hesitantly and Stiles nodded. "Um. Friday night, Scott took me to Lydia's party, but then he disappeared. Was — was something going on?"

"He — uh, he’s got some things going on. Health things," Stiles added rapidly. Let no one say he wasn’t a good bro, even if Scott did slam him up against a wall to get to the party in the first place. At the way Allison's mouth turned down with worry, he quickly added, "It’s okay, he’s fine now! Just — a stomach thing."

Her expression cleared. "Oh." Her eyes moved toward the parking lot and she lifted her head. "My dad's here," she said.

"I'll walk with you," Stiles offered, because he still needed to drop his bag off, and he wanted to get a look at the dude who shot Scott.

Allison walked up to the passenger side of a massive SUV and leaned into the open window. "Hey, Dad," she said cheerfully. "This is Stiles."

Stiles stepped up beside her and got a good look at the driver. He was lean, skin tan, eyes icy blue. He gave Stiles a stiff smile and said, "You're the sheriff's son." Allison stiffened beside Stiles, casting him an apologetic look.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said. It was almost alarming how everyone he met already know who he was. Even Derek Hale knew he was the sheriff's son. "Hi."

"Chris Argent," the man said, stretching a hand across the seats. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Stiles said, shaking his hand uncomfortably.

"Stiles was saying his dad used to take him shooting," Allison told Chris earnestly. "Maybe he could come with us sometime?"

Chris looked at Allison, then at Stiles. "Sure. If you want."

Stiles wasn’t sure what Allison was trying to do — they weren’t friends — but he appreciated that she was trying to be nice, so he smiled and said, "That'd be fun."

Allison beamed at him and he stepped back so she could climb into the car. He watched the SUV pull away from the curb. He wasn’t sure if Allison was a hunter; it seemed like she could go either way. He wasn’t sure what he was going to tell Scott, either — he certainly was not going to tell him that he’d just received an open invitation to go to a gun range with Scott's crush and her father. He couldn’t see that going over too well.

Stiles got to practice fifteen minutes late. He had to scrounge up a spare set of pads and gloves because his were at home, and it took him longer than he expected. When he got out onto the field, though, he could tell things weren’t going well. Scott was — well, he was kind of incredible. He was running faster than anyone, throwing balls into the goal with extreme accuracy and force — he did a fucking flip to catch a high ball. Unfortunately, it was incredible in the literal sense of the word; Stiles couldn’t see how anyone could take a look at him and actually believe Scott was capable of that kind of movement.

Jackson clearly wasn’t; as Stiles sat down on the bleachers, he and Scott held a tensely worded exchange at the edge of the field. Stiles couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Jackson looked pissed, and Scott's body language was guarded, his shoulders hunched. Stiles watched them nervously, sending mental messages Scott's way. Don't flip out. Don't get angry. Don't rip Jackson apart. Because as much as Stiles hated Jackson, watching him get torn limb from limb wasn’t high on his list of things to see before he died.

Finstock blew his whistle and the two sides fell back into play. Jackson tripped Scott with his stick and Scott hit the ground hard. Stiles winced, but Scott was already back up on his feet by the time Finstock bellowed, "That's it, McCall! No pain, no gain!"

Scott didn’t even have the ball when he slammed into Jackson, smacking into him from behind at a full run. Jackson hit the ground with a dull smack and didn’t rise. Finstock bellowed furiously as the whole team ran toward Jackson. Stiles was the only one who saw Scott still running, heading back toward the school. For one long, agonizing moment, Stiles was tempted to just let him go, just let him go and run through the halls and work off his steam or whatever. But no. He couldn’t just sit there because Scott’s problem was his fault, and if Scott bit someone, then that was his fault too.

He trotted into the locker room and slowed, heart pulsing in his chest. There was no sign of Scott, but he was ninety-five percent sure he saw Scott turn down this way.

"Scott?" Stiles called, taking a slow step forward. He thought he heard something move. Above him? But when he looked up, he just saw pipes. Still, he sidled a few steps to the right, where a spare lacrosse stick leaned up against a locker. He hefted it at the ready like a baseball bat, and called, "Scott?" once more.

There was a faint scrabbling noise and then Scott dropped from the ceiling on top of him. Stiles yelped in terror and brought the lacrosse stick up between them just in time to catch Scott under the jaw, stopping him inches from Stiles' throat. He didn’t look like Scott; his brow had gone heavy, ears pointed, hair (or was it fur?) grown down the sides of his jaw like out of control sideburns. His mouth hung open, snarling, and Stiles could see long, wicked, horribly sharp teeth glimmering inside.

He managed to throw Scott off him, scrambling to his feet as Scott smacked against a bank of lockers. "Back off!" Stiles warned, swinging at Scott as he lunged toward Stiles. Scott snarled, a truly horrible noise, and yanked the lacrosse stick out of Stiles' grip. He swore and darted around the lockers, hearing Scott clambering after him. It sounded like he was going up the lockers, and while that really shouldn't have been possible, neither should werewolves, and he ducked down instinctively. Scott thumped over his head, landing on a bench, and Stiles spun on his heels, scrambling back around the lockers and diving for the tossed-aside lacrosse stick. Scott was right there as he turned, his claws out, swinging at Stiles. They dug into his chest, slicing through his lacrosse pads like butter. Stiles gritted his teeth and slammed the lacrosse stick against the side of Scott's head, knocking him to the floor.

While Scott was down, Stiles leapt across the bench, backing toward the door. Scott struggled up onto one elbow, squinting at Stiles. He had a cut on his temple where Stiles hit him, but at least his face was back to normal. "Stiles?" he asked groggily. "What — "

Stiles pointed the lacrosse stick at him. "Don't you come near me," he said. "Don't. Fuck."

"What were you — " Scott began, but Stiles was gone, dropping the lacrosse stick and running down the hall. He was shaking so bad his legs wanted to collapse under him, but he forced himself to get to the jeep and get out of the parking lot before he stopped. He didn’t want Scott coming after him, not to explain, not to apologize. He couldn’t handle anything right now, including driving, so he pulled into the parking lot of a CVS and folded in half, pressing his face against the steering wheel. He sat there and breathed and breathed and breathed until the tremors died down and his vision wasn't going grey around the edges.

He just hit his best friend in the head with a lacrosse stick because said best friend was trying to — what? Stiles wasn't even sure. Bite him, eat him, kill him? It wouldn't have been good any way it played out.

There was a gentle tap on his window and Stiles jumped. He was expecting to see Scott standing there, not Deputy Graham. He didn’t really want to talk to her right now — didn’t really want to talk to anyone — but her gentle smile had a hint of worry in it. Stiles heaved a sigh and rolled down the window.

"You all right, sweetheart?" she asked, her eyes sweeping the interior. Stiles didn’t know what she expected to see — beer bottles or drugs or porn — but it was just his normal, kind of messy car, littered with fast food containers.

"I'm fine," Stiles assured her. "Sorry if I worried you."

She gave him another soft smile. "How was school?"

"It was — good," Stiles said haltingly. He tried to glance down surreptitiously and was glad to find that the seatbelt covered most of his shredded lacrosse uniform. "Um. Have there been any developments in Dad's case? Has Derek Hale been charged yet?"

Deputy Graham shifted her weight. "Stiles," she said, clearly about to let him down very gently, and his heart sank. "Hale's been released."

"What?" Stiles yelped. "Why? The body was at his house!"

"Coroner said it was an animal attack," Deputy Graham said sympathetically. "He didn't do it, Stiles."

"Why would he bury the body instead of calling someone, then?" Stiles challenged. "If he found that girl out in the woods, he could have called the police like the campers did."

"He was probably upset," Deputy Graham told him. "Stiles, they ID'd that girl. She’s Laura Hale — his sister."

The bottom dropped out of Stiles' stomach. His sister? He felt sick. There was still no doubt in his mind that Derek killed the girl, but the fact that it was his sister made it a thousand times worse — not some victim of wrong place, wrong time, but someone he knew, his own flesh and blood. Stiles wanted to be sick.

"Stiles?" Deputy Graham asked, looking worried. "Are you all right, hon?"

"Fine," Stiles replied, gritting his teeth. He gave the deputy a strained smile. "I'm fine. I'm — just going to head home."

She returned his smile with a concerned one of her own, but stepped back so he could pull out of the parking lot.

When Stiles got home, he stripped out of his mangled uniform. The pads were shredded right past the plastic and foam, and when he peeled off his undershirt, he found four shallow lines scored right across his chest. He was that close to getting his heart gouged out. If he hadn't had his pads on, he'd probably be dead right now.

Stiles heaved a shaky sigh and headed into the bathroom to shower and clean the thin trickles of blood off his chest. He tried not to think about the way there was nothing human in Scott's expression, no recognition in his eyes. Stiles shuddered and scrubbed shampoo into his scalp.

When he got out the show and checked his phone, he saw a whole slew of texts from Scott that grew increasingly panicked over time.

dude are you okay

did i hurt you

i dont know what happened, please tell me

stiles please

i'm really sorry for whatever i did

dude please talk to me

im outside, please let me in

please

Stiles sighed again, brushing his hand over his damp hair. The last message was from ten minutes ago, right before he got out of the shower. Scott was probably still outside, but Stiles wasn't really ready to see or talk to him. He had bigger things to worry about — like the fact that Derek Hale wasn't in jail — and that Derek killed his sister. That was so fucking messed up, he couldn’t even wrap his head around it. Derek had already lost the rest of his family — why would he kill his sister? Unless he’d had something to do with the fire, too.

The more he thought about it, though, the less it mattered. Derek killed his dad and ruined Scott's life and, by way of extension, Stiles'. If he was no longer in jail, he was Stiles' problem again, and Stiles was nothing if not a problem solver.

-

Stiles successfully managed to avoid Scott the next day at school, including at lunch, when he ate in the jeep instead of sitting in the cafeteria. He didn’t go to practice; he knew Finstock was just trying to be kind (probably), and that he was going to spend the season sitting on the bench, just like he did last season. He had better things to do with his time than watching his teammates play, and all of these things were plotting Derek's downfall.

For a while, he contemplated staking out the Hale house; climbing into a tree while Derek was away and sniping him off when he came home. The idea didn’t sit well with him for two reasons: one, he kind of wanted a face-to-face confrontation; and two, he remembered what Derek said in the woods last week about not having any luck shooting the wolf. He wasn’t sure that Derek was telling the truth, but if he went out there with only a gun and it turned out that guns didn’t work against werewolves, he was fucked.

So he headed to the library.

Stiles’ research had mostly been a bust so far, what the difficulty of discerning what was truth and what was myth, but he had more faith in the library than the internet. Beacon Hills was an old town, one of the oldest settlements in California, and the library had a rare book collection that rivaled some of the big colleges. He was confident he could find something helpful there.

What he found, after two hours of slowly scanning the shelves, was a slim leather-bound journal. Stiles almost put it back on the shelf; it was all handwritten and there was no index to easily scan, but the name on the inside cover made him pause. Lucienne Argent. Argent was Allison's last name, and her dad was a hunter. Was it possible he came from a whole line of hunters? Was that a thing? Derek was a werewolf and his sister was a werewolf — was it the type of thing that ran in families? Were there packs of hunters that tracked down packs of werewolves, century after century?

Stiles kind of felt like he’d put on a pair of glasses and the whole world had come into focus, like he’d flipped on a light and was suddenly seeing into dark corners he’d never been able to before. He wasn’t sure he liked it, this new feeling, but he settled down at a table anyway, scanning the pages of the journal slowly. All the entries were dated 1896, and a lot of the sentences were a jumble of French and English, but he was able to understand a lot of it and guess at the rest of it.

It seemed his guess was right; Lucienne Argent was the matriarch of a large family of hunters. They moved up and down the Californian coast, ridding the forests of all sorts of nasty things, and arrived in Beacon Hills in the fall of 1896 because of of rumors a werewolf pack had settled into the town and built themselves a huge manor in the middle of the woods. Stiles' stomach tightened when he realized that she must be talking about the Hale house; he knew it was old, one of the oldest homes in town before it burned. 

What didn’t make sense, though, was the way the hunters treated the werewolves. The hunters settled into town and confirmed werewolves did indeed live there, but they didn’t do anything about it. Lucienne made multiple references to "the code," which Stiles didn’t track down until a couple of pages later. Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent. A quick search on Google translated this into we hunt those who hunt us. Lucienne said that the werewolves hadn’t hurt anyone, that all the hunters were there to do was make sure that the werewolves knew there would be consequences for their actions if they did hurt anyone.

Stiles was frustrated. He finally, finally found an authentic source for information on werewolves and it was a bunch of people who went around pretending like they were the boogeyman or something. He flipped forward a couple of months and found – to his relief — exactly what he was looking for. There was a werewolf in town attacking people — Lucienne called her an omega, whatever that was, and the hunters killed her by — oh. Stiles' shoulders slumped. Someone chopped off her head. He had a feeling that'd be a little difficult for him to do, unless he could trap Derek somehow, maybe knock him unconscious first.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he twisted around to see one of the librarians. "Closing in five minutes," she warned, and Stiles nodded. When she’d gone, he tore the magnetic strip out of the book and slipped it inside his sweatshirt. There might be more useful information inside.

-

Stiles got through the week. There wasn’t much more he could say than that. Finstock chewed him out for not going to practice, but Stiles tuned him out and didn’t go back again. Scott tried cornering him multiple times, his face set with determination and worry, but Stiles managed to duck him every time. (And when he wasn’t trying to interrogate Stiles, Stiles constantly caught sight of him hanging around Allison, grinning all over his face. That was fine, Stiles thought. He was happy that Scott was happy, though he worried about Scott shifting again.)

On Friday, he saw Derek Hale at the grocery store, of all places. He didn’t even notice Derek at first; he noticed people swinging their heads around, trying to be surreptitious, murmuring to each other. Stiles looked around, wondering what they were talking about, and that was when he saw Derek standing in front of the soup section, a basket in his hand and his shoulders hunched. He looked small, unintimidating under the florescent lights with a can of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken Noodle Soup in his hand. Stiles choked back a laugh as he walked by him. He felt Derek turn his head to look at him, glaring, probably, and Stiles hesitated when he got to the end of the aisle. There was nothing he wanted to do more than turn around and bash his basket into Derek's handsome face, but he didn’t. He did look over his shoulder to smirk at Derek, and he definitely didn’t almost trip at the way Derek's lip curled and his eyes flashed blue. He definitely didn’t.

Seeing Derek renewed the fire in him, though – the urge to avenge his father that was burning down to embers with no real leads. With rage stirring in his stomach, he went to visit Chris Argent on Saturday.

-

The Argents lived in one of the big houses in the new development at the edge of town. Stiles knew where it was because Scott told him last Friday — sometime before he slammed Stiles into the wall. The bruises were nearly gone by now, a pale pale yellow almost the color of his skin. He pulled up in front of the house and walked up the stone path. When he rang the doorbell he could hear it chime faintly inside. After a moment, the door swung open and Allison appeared, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Oh!" Allison said. "Stiles. I wasn't expecting you."

"Sorry," Stiles smiles stiffly. "I'm actually here to talk to your dad."

"My…dad?" Allison looked a little bewildered, but she stepped away from the door. "Um. Come in. I'll go grab him."

"Thanks," Stiles said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Allison gave him an uncertain smile before turning and disappearing down a hallway. Stiles stood and looked around. It was a nice house; tile floors and chandelier in the entryway. There was a television on somewhere, sounded like sports.

Chris Argent appeared a moment later, looking casual in a dark shirt and jeans. Allison trailed behind him, biting at her lip. She was clearly confused, but Stiles wasn’t about to explain to her. Scott would kill him if he got Allison involved.

"Stiles," Chris greeted, his voice even.

"Hi," Stiles replied. "I need some help."

Chris watched him for a long moment, his brow furrowing faintly, before he nodded shortly and said, "All right. Let's go talk in the garage." Allison moved to follow them and Chris shook his head at her, leaving her standing in the hall with a frown on her face.

The first thing Stiles saw in the garage was the steel gun cabinet lining the far wall. He smiled grimly. Good. He turned, waiting for Chris to close the door behind him before saying bluntly, "I need a gun that will kill a werewolf."

To his credit, Chris didn’t even blink. He was too stoic, maybe, when he raised his eyebrows at Stiles and said, "Werewolves aren't real, Stiles."

"Bullshit," Stiles immediately retorted. "I know you're a hunter. I've been doing my homework. I know you can help me."

Chris was silent for a long, long moment, his face blank. "And why do you want to kill a werewolf?" he asked eventually, carefully.

"Derek Hale killed my dad," Stiles snapped. "I'm gonna kill him." He didn’t mention Scott. They might not be talking right now, but Chris shot Scott. That didn’t exactly make him a good guy.

"Interesting," Chris said thoughtfully. "And why do you think that?"

"Because I was there," Stiles said furiously. "I saw him bite my dad!"

"You saw Derek Hale bite your father?"

"I — I saw a wolf," Stiles said. "And Derek's a werewolf."

"Interesting," Chris said again.

Stiles, growing irritated at Chris' nonchalant manner, snapped, "Are you going to give me a gun or what?"

Chris raised his eyebrows. "Of course I'm not. You're sixteen. And anyway," he added, before Stiles can explode in rage, "It isn’t the gun that kills werewolves. It’s the bullets."

Stiles blinked. "Oh," he said.

"You ever kill anyone?" Chris asked suddenly, folding his arms across his chest. "You ever see the way flesh rends when a bullet tears through it? You've heard an animal's dying breath? You think this a world that you want to get tied up in? Because I will tell you — once you start down this path, there is no going back. Once you've killed once, you're a killer. You'll know it. The werewolves will know it. You'll never have a normal life again."

Stiles glared down at his shoes for a long moment, then back up at Chris, expression defiant. "I don't care," he spat.

"Wrong answer," Chris told him. He stepped toward the door leading into the house, pushing it open. "You need to leave."

"What about your code?" Stiles asked furiously, and Chris went very still. "We hunt those who hunt us. Well? He killed my dad. That means I get to go after him!"

Chris turned, looking angry. "You are not a hunter," he hissed. "You do not get to do anything. I don't know who told you about the code, but that's my world, not yours. Now get out."

Stiles clenched his jaw and strode past Chris, back into the house. He headed for the front door, Allison nowhere in sight. Chris caught his arm before he left the house, yanking him close to growl, "You breathe a word of this to Allison or anyone, and I will make you disappear."

Stiles yanked himself free and left the house without another word. He slammed the door behind him. When he got home, he had a text from Scott.

allison said you came over to her house?

Stiles sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Scott had texted him all week, but he hadn't responded. He owed Scott this, he supposed, and after Chris's warning, he was pretty certain he knew the truth. allison isn’t a hunter.

oh. The first text came quick. The second came more slowly, almost hesitant. are you ok

Stiles stared down at his phone for a long time before responding. fine.

The next text was even slower to arrive. do you want to came over, i just got dead space 2

Stiles bit at his lip. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t trust Scott anymore and it hurt almost as much as his dad dying. The claw marks on his chest were just thin, scabbed over lines, but it made his heart ache when he looked in the mirror and saw them. All he could think of was Scott's face, alien and empty. He had to set his phone down before his hands started shaking.

He didn’t text Scott back.

-

Stiles found what he was been looking for in Lucienne's journal a couple of days later. It was brief, just a mention of something called "mountain ash," but it was enough to start him on an hours-long quest combing the internet. He read pages and pages of folklore, researching the tree known as mountain ash or rowan, and sat back on his bed with a grin. It was three in the morning and he had a science test in five hours, but he had a plan.

-

His order came a few days later, five pounds of finely ground rowan ash. He found it on Etsy, of all places, and it came nicely packaged in a couple of glass bottles wrapped in purple tissue paper with a note from the seller that said Good luck, from one spark to another. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t really matter — as long as it worked.

Stiles headed into the woods that same night, driving into the preserve as far as he could before climbing out and heading into the woods on foot, his rifle strapped to his back. He walked until he found an empty clearing. He was careful this time, moving as stealthily as he could, mindful of Derek's earlier words about him crashing through the woods. He didn’t mind if Derek found him — he was banking on it, actually, but he needed time to get things set up, so he didn’t slow. He held a jar of mountain ash in his hand and he scattered it in the grass, creating a wide circle. Stiles stopped just short of completing it, though; if he completed it now, Derek wouldn’t be able to cross inside, and Stiles needed him trapped if he was going to have any chance at taking him out. So he left a couple inches between the two endpoints of his circle and held a handful of ash inside his pocket so Derek wouldn’t suspect anything. He couldn’t hold his gun like that, which made him nervous, so he kept his arm tense, ready to close the circle when Derek appeared.

The forest was silent, just like it was the last time he was out here at night. The silence was good, though; it kept him on his guard. He wasn’t at all surprised when Derek stepped out of the trees across the clearing, his jaw clenched tight.

"What do you want?" Derek asked, his voice low.

"I want you dead," Stiles retorted, taking a step backward, hoping Derek would follow. He did, moving out of the trees and into the grass. Stiles tried not to grin; only a couple more feet and he'd be inside the circle. "Since the cops let you go, I guess I have to take care of you myself."

Derek snorted scornfully. "And what do you think you're going to do to me?" he asked. He jerked his head toward the gun over Stiles' shoulder. "Shoot me? I told you guns won't work."

"Yeah, you know, I've got my doubts about the truth of that statement," Stiles replied. Chris had told him the same, but Stiles didn’t believe it. "I figure if I get you in the head enough times, all the regeneration in the world won't help if you've got no brain left."

Derek took another couple of steps forward, his eyes flaring a luminescent blue in the dim light. "That's only if you're fast enough to hit me."

"Oh, I don't need to be fast," Stiles grinned. Derek stood almost in the center of the circle now. Stiles whipped his hand out of his pocket, letting the last of the mountain ash fall to the ground, completing the circle. He shut his eyes as Derek made an outraged noise and stalked forward.

All of his sources were kind of mixed about what needed to be done once the mountain ash was laid down, but Stiles was certain you couldn't just leave it at that. Most of the readings he'd done said you had to make some sort of connection; a push of sorts, that would activate the magic inherent to the ash.

Work, Stiles thought desperately. Please, work. It was hard to concentrate with the sound of Derek bearing down on him, but Stiles kept his eyes closed, clenching his jaw. Keep him inside.

He felt it take; it was like a flare of warmth inside his body, pulsing out his arms and through the tips of his fingers. A spark, Stiles thought, remembering the note that had came with the ash.

When he opened his eyes, Derek was a scant two feet from him and he had his arms up, pushing against an invisible barrier. Stiles laughed, triumphant, and Derek snarled at him, his eyes burning blue.

"Look at you," Stiles taunted, shrugging his rifle off his shoulder. "How does it feel to be the victim?"

"Stiles," Derek hissed, and Stiles stilled for a moment, not sure how Derek knew his name. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Like I'm going to believe that," Stiles snapped. "You just don't want to die. Well, hate to break it to you, buddy, but my dad didn't deserve to die, and Scott didn't deserve to have his life ruined. And what about your sister, huh?"

Derek dropped into a crouch, emanating a deep rumbling noise that Stiles could feel in his bones. Derek shifted, the lines of his face going harsh, long, pointed teeth dropping from his gums. It was — okay, yeah, it was more than a little terrifying, but Derek wasn’t going anywhere. Stiles was safe.

"Yeah, that's real scary," Stiles said, trying to sound unimpressed. "You — "

He realized Derek wasn’t looking at him, though; his luminous gaze focused on the trees beyond Stiles, head turning to follow something Stiles couldn’t see. Stiles went still, straining to see what he saw. Behind him, Derek said, very low, "Break the circle, Stiles."

Stiles didn’t respond; he saw a dark shadow slipping between the trees and tensed, bringing the rifle up to his face, switching the safety off. He could see it; a massive black wolfish monster slinking toward them, eyes burning red. There was another werewolf. Fuck, had Derek been telling the truth? Or were they working together — a pack?

"Who is that?" Stiles asked, trying to keep his voice even. It wasn't very successful; he could feel his hands shaking as he stared at the thing moving through the trees — and whether it was from anger or fear he couldn't tell. This was the one that had killed his dad, he was sure of it. "Friend of yours?"

"I don't know," Derek hissed. "Let me out."

"So you two can buddy up?" Stiles retorted. "I don't fucking think so." He drew in a deep breath, aimed at the monster in the trees, and pulled the trigger — but suddenly, the beast wasn't in his line of vision. It moved faster than he could follow, leaping up into the trees above them. Stiles tried to follow its movement but he couldn't see — he wasn't fast enough. "Where is it?" he snapped.

"You can't catch it," Derek said, and Stiles was pretty sure he was imagining the desperation in Derek's voice. "Let me out, Stiles!"

"Fat chance," Stiles muttered, spinning as he tried to follow the werewolf's movements. He nearly lost his balance on an exposed root and flung out an arm to catch himself only to have his arm grabbed by Derek, who hauled him into the circle of mountain ash. "Fuck!" Stiles snarled, fighting desperately with Derek as he wrenched the gun from Stiles' grasp. 

Derek held it over his head out of Stiles' reach, an irritating flashback to elementary school gym class, and snapped, "That's an alpha. You don't stand a chance — break the circle and I'll draw it off!" 

Stiles froze, his eyes snapping to the edge of the circle, where the werewolf had come out of the shadows and now paced around them. "What's an alpha?"

"Pack leader," Derek replied distractedly, his eyes on the werewolf. "It's strong."

"You don't know who it is?" Stiles hissed. 

Derek shook his head. "The mountain ash blocks my senses."

Stiles hesitated. "Why are you trying to help me?”

"Because I didn't kill anyone," Derek snapped. 

 

  
-

Stiles stormed into his room, pissed beyond belief. When he heard someone shift behind him, the rustle of clothing, he whirled around, raising his gun. When he saw it was Derek Hale, his hands raised, Stiles didn’t even think; he pulled the trigger. It was kind of a shock. The bullet hit Derek in the shoulder and Derek's whole body jerked back with the impact. It must have been a through-and-through because there was a mist of blood on the wall behind him now, staining Stiles' band posters. He was irrationally irritated about it.

Stiles stepped over to him as Derek hit the floor, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Stiles could see blood welling between his fingers and felt a stab of guilt, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he leveled the gun at Derek's forehead and snapped, "What are you doing in here?"

Derek went white, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Needed your help."

"I don't help killers," Stiles spat at him.

"I already told you — "

"I've been talking to Kate Argent," Stiles told him triumphantly, grinning at the way Derek's expression went flat. "Yeah, you remember her, right?"

"Whatever she told you," Derek said, breathing heavily, "was wrong."

"Yeah?" Stiles challenged. "Seems like she did a good thing, burning your house down."

Derek snarled at him, his eyes flaring blue. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

"Oh, I know — "

"Did she tell you?" Derek snapped, panting between words. "Eleven people died that day. Six humans. Four children. All innocent. You think she's a fucking hero?"

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it. Derek sneered up at him. "That's right. Go ahead and trust her. She'll stab you in the back without a second thought." Just as fast as the scorn came, though, it faded from Derek's face, leaving only pain and weariness. "No one deserves what happened to them," Derek told him miserably.

Stiles hesitated before lowering his gun, clicking the safety back on. He wasn’t sure what to believe now, but he was pretty sure Derek wasn’t lying. Sure, he could be trying to save his own skin, but if that was the case he was a pretty convincing actor.

Stiles thought about Kate and the way she made his skin crawl. All of her was sugar-coated, fake. He had yet to see the interior, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. She'd helped him and he was grateful for that, but he really didn’t like being around her more often than necessary.

Stiles crouched down and nodded at Derek's shoulder. "How is it?"

Derek gave him a dark look but he wasn’t all that intimidating with dark circles under his eyes and his skin all pale and sweaty. "I've been shot," he said flatly. "What do you think?"

"It'll heal though, right?"

Derek nodded shortly. "In a day or so." He narrowed his eyes at Stiles. "No apology?"

Stiles snorted. "You trespassed in my home. I had every right to shoot you. And anyway, you still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"Well," Derek said tightly, "thanks to you, there’s a target on my back. I don't have any place to stay."

"So you came here?" Stiles asked skeptically.

"Last place anyone would look," Derek retorted, and Stiles had to give him that.

He got to his feet and said briskly, "Get your shirt off." Derek gave him a suspicious look and Stiles said impatiently, "I'll wrap up the wound, okay? You can take a nap here and then I want you gone. This is a temporary ceasefire, agreed?"

Derek grimaced but nodded. "Agreed."

"Okay," Stiles said, and headed for the bathroom. When he came back to his room, Derek had managed to slip his jacket off but he was having trouble getting his shirt over his head; his arm wasn’t cooperating. Stiles sighed. Figured that the first time he got a hot guy half-undressed in his room it wasn’t for any remotely sexual reason. It figured. He helped Derek yank off the bloodstained t-shirt, then inspected the wound critically. He was no gunshot expert but it looked pretty clean, even if it was still bleeding sluggishly, weeping red down Derek's frankly awe-inspiring chest. Focus, he thought, and poured half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the wound to distract himself. Derek howled, his body jackknifing. Stiles jerked back when he saw Derek's nails had grown long and wickedly curved, but Derek didn’t go for him, just dug them into his thighs, breathing heavily.

When Stiles was sure Derek wasn’t going to attack, he wiped the wound clean, then smeared anti-bacterial cream all around it and wrapped the whole thing in several thousand layers of gauze.

When he was done, he sat back on his heels and Derek bent his head, inspecting Stiles' work. 

"Was that good enough?" Stiles asked. Derek nodded slowly. He was still pale, but he had stopped shaking, at least. Stiles refused to feel guilty for shooting him — at least, that was what he kept telling himself, but part of him did feel bad. He’d never shot anything living before, not even a squirrel out in the woods. As ready as he’d been to hurt Derek in that moment, he wasn’t sure he liked seeing the pain on Derek's face. "All right. I've got homework to do, but you can sleep on my bed, okay? Just don't get used to it."

"I don't intend to," Derek said coldly, getting his uninjured arm beneath him and levering himself to his feet. "Mind if I use your bathroom to wash off all this blood, your majesty?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Whatever. It’s down the hall."

Derek brushed past him, disappearing through the doorway. Stiles moved to his desk, hauling over his backpack and pulling out textbooks. He resolutely ignored Derek when he came back into the room smelling innocuously of soap, lowering himself onto Stiles' bed. Stiles kept his head bent over his books, but he couldn’t help sneaking a glance over at the werewolf. He just sat there staring out the window, looking a little lost. Stiles ground his teeth and pulled out the sheet for his chemistry work. He was well into the first problem when Derek spoke. 

"Where'd you get this?"

Stiles turned with a frown, expecting Derek to be holding a book or something, not his stuffed wolf. He flushed and said, "I got it when I was a kid. I don't remember."

Derek sat quiet for a long time, running his hands over the worn plush fur. Stiles watched him, waiting, and eventually Derek said, "That first night you came out into the woods, you said a woman told you to go out there if you ever needed help."

"Yeah?"

Derek set the wolf aside and looked at Stiles, a strange unhappy expression on his face. "That was my mom." 

Stiles stared at him, his mouth falling open. He remembered the woman in the woods, her kind face and soft hands, and the boy who'd been with her. Derek, run home, she'd said, and Stiles' eyes went wide. "That was you," he said accusingly. "You brought me the wolf in the hospital!"

"God," Derek said quietly, rubbing his hand over his face. "That was — I'd completely forgotten. The fire was a few weeks later and I — don't remember a lot from around then."

Stiles looked down at his hands, corners of his mouth turning down. No wonder he didn’t really remember the fire; he'd been young, caught up in his own grief. God, that must have killed Dad; Stiles could remember him working overtime on the arson case, probably trying to distract himself from Mom's death. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle having shared that horrible moment with his enemy, so he avoided it instead. "You should get some rest," Stiles said tensely, turning back to his desk.

"Fine," Derek said quietly. Stiles could hear him moving around, making himself comfortable, and then silence fell over the room. When Stiles glanced over a few minutes later, Derek lay on his stomach, arms crossed over a pillow, face buried in the crook of his arm. Stiles bit his lip and tried to focus on his homework, but he was struggling; talking about that night out in the forest had reminded him of his mom and his dad and all the loss in his life. So maybe he’d been hiding behind his anger again, convincing himself that he was doing something about his grief by going after the alpha, but it wasn’t — it wasn’t doing much for him, really. He felt emptier every day. 

Stiles bit on his lip again, harder than before, fighting against the swell of tears in his eyes. It was a losing battle but he couldn’t do it there, not in front of Derek, so he got to his feet, silently hurrying from the room and down the stairs. He managed to get out onto the back deck before it hit him, crippling, and he sank onto the stairs, tears already slipping down his cheeks. He hoped, desperately and irrationally, that Ms. Brown next door wasn’t spying out of her windows like she always did. The last thing he needed right now was the kindness of an old woman. 

It was already sunset by the time he went back inside, face wet and mind numb, but he didn’t go back upstairs. Stiles headed for the kitchen instead, dejectedly building himself a sandwich for dinner because putting any more effort into food wasn’t something he was willing to do. He thought about making one for Derek, too, but decided to let him keep sleeping instead. It occurred to him, while he sat crying outside, that he and Derek were basically the same person now; orphans, alone, families destroyed by violence. He was no longer sure that Derek being a werewolf made any difference.

Stiles ate his sandwich and watched television for a while without much enthusiasm. He went back upstairs around ten and Derek still lay asleep, though he’d turned on his side, back to the wall. He was still asleep when Stiles gave up on his homework around one. Stiles gave him a long look before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and pull on a pair of gym shorts. He took a deep breath before going back into his room. He could tell Derek to leave. He'd be within every right to tell him to go. But he didn’t. He wasn’t exactly sure why he didn’t, except that maybe it was nice to have someone in the house, even if that someone was kind of his enemy. But, ceasefire, right? Company was company. 

So he went back into his room and shoved at Derek's shoulder. Derek stirred, opened one eye to squint sleepily at him, and Stiles said, "Get up or move over, dude. I've got school tomorrow."

Derek squinted at him a moment longer before rolling over without a word, leaving room for Stiles to sink in. He'd been worried about it being awkward, but maybe the day had taken more out of him than he realized, because he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

-

When Stiles woke the next morning, he was alone in his room. There was no sign of Derek; his bloody jacket and t-shirt were gone from the floor. Stiles would almost say it was a dream, but there was a spray of dried blood on the wall still and when he sat up he could smell coffee. He wasn’t surprised when he went downstairs and found Derek in the kitchen, staring out the window over the sink with a mug of coffee in his hands. He turned as Stiles came into the kitchen, eyes flat and uncurious, but inclined his head when Stiles mumbled, "Morning," and stumbled over to the coffee machine to pour himself a cup. 

They didn’t talk until Stiles has finished his cup and even then it was he who spoke first. "Made yourself at home, I see."

Derek leveled him with a dark look. "I'll pay for it if it bothers you that much."

"I was just joking," Stiles sighed. "I don't care. Make yourself some breakfast if you want. I think there were some sausages in there."

"I don't need it," Derek said stiffly. 

Stiles got to his feet with another sigh. "I'm sorry for acting like a douchebag, okay? And I'm sorry I got you into all this trouble. Let me make you breakfast as an apology."

Derek turned to look at him, his face blank. "Still not apologizing for shooting me?"

"No," Stiles said firmly, though the corners of his mouth turned up. Derek snorted, but he sat down at the kitchen table and he didn’t push away the plate of sausage and eggs and toast Stiles set down in front of him. Stiles settled down on the opposite side of the table, digging into his breakfast. 

"You didn't kick me out," Derek said abruptly. Stiles looked across the table at him, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. Derek stared back at him, face grim. 

"Yeah," Stiles agreed casually, bringing the fork the rest of the way to his mouth. 

"Why?"

Stiles chewed and swallowed, buying himself time. Derek didn’t look away from him. "Maybe," Stiles said slowly, "I realized that things are pretty shitty for both of us as of late, and I've been making them worse and I'm sorry about that. Also, you slept for like fifteen hours, so maybe you're not all that healthy. Or threatening."

Derek glowered at him, but it seemed half-hearted.

"How's your arm?" Stiles asked hesitantly.

Derek looked down and rolled his shoulder forward. "Stiff," he said. "It’ll be fine, though."

-

Stiles slept in his father's bed for a long time after his mother died, curled on his side next to his dad, soothed into sleep by the sound of his steady breathing. Even on the nights he worked late shifts, Stiles slept in the bed while his babysitter curled up in the armchair or downstairs on the couch. It was many months and many nightmares before he could sleep in his own bed again, but Dad never pushed him. Never tried to convince him to go back to his own bed when he showed up in the middle of the night, shaking after a bad dream. He'd just roll over with a sigh, leaving space for Stiles to clamber into.

Now he stood in the doorway to his father's bedroom and swallowed, not sure he could do this. Dad didn't die in bed, sure — he was on the floor when Stiles found him, and — no. No, Stiles couldn’t start thinking about that or he'd never be able to sleep.

Derek came out of the bathroom and paused when he saw Stiles still standing in the hallway. "Are you…all right?" he asked slowly, like he didn’t really want to know.

Stiles forced himself to breathe out. "Yeah," he said, not looking at Derek. Derek stood there a moment longer before he went into Stiles' bedroom. The light went out a moment later. Stiles exhaled again and stepped inside the bedroom, carefully shutting the door behind him.

 

-

The next thing he knew, there was water pouring over him and he sputtered awake, spitting cold water as it soaked his clothes and chilled his bones. He blinked to find Derek leaning over him, his brow furrowed.

"What the hell?" Stiles complained.

"You were having a nightmare," Derek told him. "I couldn't wake you up."

"So you dumped me in the shower?" Stiles struggled to his feet, saturated clothes heavy, and shut off the water. He took the towel Derek offered him, shaking all over.

"Worked, didn't it?" Derek retorted, leaving the bathroom. Stiles scowled after him and stripped off his wet clothes, quickly wrapping the blanket around his trembling frame. He went into his room to grab dry clothes but when he tried to leave, Derek blocked his way.

"No," he said over Stiles' protests. "You're sleeping in here tonight."

"I'm fine!" Stiles insisted but Derek shook his head, steering him to the bed. He waited for Stiles to climb in before following, not rising to Stiles' muttered words about alphas with huge egos. Derek said nothing, just turned on his side and went still.

-

[post nightmare]

Stiles stirs and tried to roll over but he couldn’t; there was a heavy weight on his back, blazing heat against his skin. He made a muffled noise of irritation, twisting to see — Derek. He freezes. Derek. Derek's laying half on top of him, his face between Stiles' shoulder blades, his arm looped under Stiles' stomach. Fuck. What's he supposed to do?

Derek shifts, rubbing his cheek against Stiles' back and Stiles can feel the roughness of his stubble even through his t-shirt. Stiles breathes out slowly, forcing himself to relax. This isn't bad. It isn't bad at all, really. Stiles has never shared a bed with anyone except Scott, and it was kind of nice. Derek's like a really heavy, extremely warm blanket, and he smells good, like soap and spices and damp earth. He could get used to this, Stiles thought, sinking back toward sleep. Derek made a noise against his back like he agreed and Stiles falls asleep under him, warm and content.

The next time he wakes, his clock said it was almost eleven and Derek's gone.

"Shit!" he hissed, scrambling out of bed and diving for his dresser. He got dressed as far as he can, hurrying downstairs. Derek's not there either, but Stiles isn't looking for him; he was grabbing food and his backpack then tumbling out the door to run to his jeep. He couldn’t keep missing classes; he was going to get suspended soon if he kept it up.

-

He was still staggering to his feet, hand pushing at a tree for support, blood leaking from his nose, when Derek's there in front of him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Stiles shuts his eyes, ready to get yelled at, but they fly back open when he felt lips against his own. Derek's kissing him. Derek Hale was kissing him. He felt lightheaded so he curls his fingers in the leather of Derek's jacket, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t pull away; he pulls Derek in against him, sagging back against the tree, sandwiched between the bark and Derek's warmth.

-

"Why did my dad die and Scott didn't?" Stiles asked quietly.

Derek looked at him for a long time before replying. "There was always a risk," he said. "Even the strongest, healthiest person could die from it."

"But why?"

Derek shrugs. "I don't know. My family didn't turn people. I don't know if it was just chance or what. I'm sorry."

-

Stiles reaches out slowly. If Derek notices the way his hands shake, he didn’t say anything, his eyes settling half-shut as Stiles' fingers brush against his skin. Stiles exhales shakily, his hands following the curve of Derek's brow to the pointed tips of his ears. The hair on Derek's jaw was soft — he expected it to be rough for some reason. Derek sat patiently and when Stiles' hands leave his face, he holds out his hands so Stiles can look at his claws, press the tips of his fingers against the points hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood.

"Are you afraid of me?" Derek asked him quietly, his voice muffled by the long teeth in his mouth.

"No," Stiles said. He closes his eyes, thinking of his dad. "Yes."


	3. your hand in mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 34k
> 
> This is fic #27 - #25 was "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" - and I'd decided that I wanted to try my hand at mpreg, but for whatever reason never really got into the idea of this one.

There came a knock on the door and Stiles slowly resurfaced from the depths of his work with a frown, blinking at Scott standing in the doorway.

"Hey," Scott said. "Derek's here."

Stiles blinked again, his eyes narrowing. "Derek?" he repeated. "Why are you telling me?"

"He didn't want to interrupt you," Scott told him, grinning faintly. "But we've been gaming for like an hour and I think he's getting bored."

Stiles got to his feet with a groan, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. He'd been embroiled in homework since he got back from class at noon and a quick glance at his phone told him it was now almost five. "He's been here an hour and no one said anything?"

"Like I said," Scott replied, disappearing down the hall, his voice echoing back to Stiles. "He didn't want to throw your groove."

"Sap," Stiles muttered fondly, knowing that Derek could probably hear him, if he was listening. He followed Scott downstairs, coming into the living room to find Isaac, Derek, Erica, and Boyd lounging on the couches. He leaned against the back of the couch behind Derek, curling his arms around Derek's shoulders. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you today."

Derek spared him a quick glance, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he brushed his nose against Stiles' cheek before returning his attention to the television. “I know,” he replied enigmatically.

“Uh huh,” Stiles huffed. He looked across the room at Boyd and Erica. “Didn’t expect to see you two, either. Someone care to enlighten me?”

“Full moon,” Erica said helpfully. She laid on the couch, drumming her heels against Boyd’s thighs. “Party time.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles sighed, unfolding his arms from around Derek’s neck and swinging himself over the back of the couch to settle down next to him. “And you guys thought Mario Party was a good choice? This game ends friendships – just ask Scott.”

“Stiles and I have broken up like five times,” Scott agreed solemnly, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“I wasn’t aware you two were the ones that were dating,” Derek said dryly.

Stiles snorted and dug an elbow into Derek’s ribs. “Not any more, and it’s all Mario’s fault. Now c’mon, did you really come down here for the full moon? We were home last week.”

“We can leave if you don’t want us here,” Boyd said sarcastically, raising his eyebrows, and Stiles flapped his hands at him.

“Did you pick the eyebrow thing up from Derek? Because it’s definitely not as impressive on you.”

Boyd flipped him off and Stiles grinned, turning his attention back to Derek, who sighed and waved the controller at Scott. “Swap in?”

"Sure thing," Scott said cheerfully, grabbing the controller and throwing himself down next to Isaac. 

Derek rose to his feet and Stiles followed him into the kitchen, where Derek leaned against the counter and asked, "Do you know what today is?"

"Uh," Stiles said uneasily. "The full moon? Is this a trick question?"

Derek snorted, a faint smile quirking his lips. "It's been a year," he replied evenly, watching Stiles.

Stiles blinked, then frowned. "A year since what?" he asked. "A year - oh. A year since you and me…?” Derek nodded, his expression soft. Stiles grinned, taking a step forward into Derek's space. "You've been keeping track?"

Derek nodded again, curling his fingers in Stiles' belt loops and tugging him close. "I do that," he said softly. "For the important things."

Stiles swallowed. "I didn't even remember. I'm sorry - "

Derek shook his head, still smiling faintly. "Don't worry about it."

Stiles grinned. "Still. I gotta give you something. How about a bj? I'll do it right here."

"No you won't!" came a chorus of voices from the living room. Stiles' grin widened.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Save it," he said. "Do you still have work to do?"

"Nothing that can't be put aside for a while," Stiles replied. "Why?"

"I've got plans for you," Derek said, looking a little smug. "Can you take the night off?"

"'Course I can," Stiles grinned. "Are we going out? Lemme go get changed."

Derek nodded and pushed him away gently, heading back to the living while Stiles trotted back upstairs to his room. He couldn't stop grinning as he stripped out of his clothes, skin flushing warm as he yanked on a fresh pair of jeans. 

One year. He and Scott and Isaac had gone back to Beacon Hills for the weekend - Scott for his mom's birthday and Stiles and Isaac tagging along because it was always good to go home. There'd been no disaster, no supernatural violence in the middle of the night somewhere deep in the preserve; all of that had faded away over the years as the power and reputation of the pack grew. There'd just been a party at his dad's house and a lot of booze and, when everyone else had disappeared, it was just Stiles and Derek left by the fire. 

It wasn't like it had been a complete surprise. As Lydia had liked to point out over the months following, they'd always been "adorably transparent" around each other, which was probably true. Stiles wasn't going to deny that he'd always had a thing for Derek, and he'd been pretty sure Derek had a thing for him, but the timing had never been right. High school certainly hadn't been a good time, not with the struggle of keeping the new pack together, and the clashes with the alpha pack and the nemeton and all the other shit that had gone down. The first few years of college hadn't landed right for them either – Stiles had taken full advantage of the time away from home to have fun, experiment, and he was glad for that time because he learned a lot about himself and what he wanted. Derek dated in that time too, straightforward, normal relationships that didn't end in someone dying. 

Neither of them were in relationships the night of the party and Stiles still wasn't sure why that night was the night it happened - probably the liquid courage running through his veins helped more than a little – but something finally clicked into place that night. They'd always gravitated toward each other so it wasn't strange that the party ended with the two of them sitting around, but Stiles couldn't stop watching Derek, the way the fire softened his features and shadows pooled in the hollows of his throat. All the want he'd tried to ignore since high school came surging back tenfold and, after six years of yearning, Stiles finally gave in, leaning into Derek's space and cutting him off mid-sentence with a rushed kiss. He could still remember the startled way Derek inhaled against his lips, but he hadn't pulled away - no, he'd fisted his hand in the front of Stiles' shirt and pulled him in closer.

Stiles grinned at his reflection in the mirror as he pulled on a clean shirt. They'd ended up in his childhood bed, having sex under posters for bands he hadn't listened to since high school and afterward, Derek had mumbled into his neck, "I don't want this to be a one-time thing."

It hadn’t, and now it had been a year since that night. Stiles paused as he ran a hand through his hair, feeling guilty. He hadn’t remembered. He’d always been terrible at remembering dates – his dad’s and Scott’s were the only ones he could remember with any semblance of reliability. He still had a reminder on his phone for Derek’s. Stiles sighed softly; it was too late now to find Derek a gift. He’d just have to make up for it with some really great sex.

Derek was waiting when he went back downstairs, leaning against the wall, his eyes on the television screen. Stiles followed his gaze. “Still playing Mario Party, huh? If I come back later and the house is in ruins, I’m blaming it on the game, not the full moon.”

Scott rolled his eyes without breaking his attention away from the game. “Sure thing, Dad.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the werewolves on the couch. “I mean it,” he said. He nudged Derek in the ribs. “C’mon, you’re their alpha. You tell ‘em.”

“Not my alpha,” Scott said smugly.

“Oh my god,” Erica sighed. “Derek, get him out of here already. Go blow him in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant or something, for god’s sake.”

Stiles scowled at her but didn’t fight Derek, who took hold of his arm and towed him out the front door. They settled into Derek’s car and Stiles took advantage of the silence to lean across the center console, grabbing Derek’s sleeve so he could pull him in for a kiss. “Don’t think I got a proper hello in,” Stiles murmured when they’d pulled apart.

“Hey,” Derek said quietly, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he leaned in for another slow kiss.

Stiles squeezed his thigh before pulling away, smiling languidly. “So, what’ve you got planned for me?”

“It’s a surprise,” Derek replied evenly, finally starting the car and backing out into the street.

Derek pointed the car toward the city and they rode along in comfortable silence, the hand Derek wasn't using to drive folded over Stiles'. It was true that they'd seen each other only a week before - they took turns visiting each other, driving the two and a half hours between Davis and Beacon Hills every couple of weeks. It didn't happen nearly as often as either of them would like, but with the end of his senior year drawing close, Stiles couldn't afford to take as much time out of his schedule as he used to. Derek didn't need to do anything fancy for him for their anniversary; he was happy enough just to see him. 

Stiles told Derek this much and Derek squeezed his hand gently when he replied, "Am I not allowed to treat you?"

Stiles flushed. "Of course you are. I just meant - I didn't get you anything."

"I don't need anything," Derek said evenly. "Just you."

Stiles twisted to look out the window, his flush deepening. "Please tell me we're gonna have sex soon."

"That's the plan," Derek replied mildly. "Couple more minutes."

"Thank god," Stiles sighed and Derek snorted as he put on his blinker and turned off the road, driving up in front of a nice-looking hotel. Stiles' eyes widened at he took in the sights. "Der," he breathed. "Are we staying here? You didn't - this looks expensive."

Derek gave him a bemused look. "This is Sacramento," he said. "It's not that fancy."

"Still," Stiles said. "You didn't have to - I mean, we could have just stayed at the house."

"I know," Derek said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "But it's not often that we get a space all to ourselves. I thought for tonight, at least, it'd be nice."

Stiles looked over at him, his face softening. It was true - Stiles shared a house with Isaac and Scott, so it wasn't like they got much alone time when Derek came down to visit. And when they were in Beacon Hills, it was either stay at Stiles' dad's house, or at the apartment Derek shared with Erica and Boyd while his house was being built. "It is nice," he said quietly, squeezing Derek's hand. "Thank you."

Derek smiled at him - a real smile, with his lips parted and his buck teeth showing, and Stiles' heart twisted at the love in his expression. They walked into the hotel holding hands and Stiles leaned against Derek as they rode the elevator up to their floor, Derek's arm hooked around his shoulder. When they got inside their hotel room, Derek pushed him up against the wall, but he didn't move immediately, nuzzling along Stiles' jaw. 

"What's this?" Stiles asked genially, fisting his hands in the back of Derek's shirt. "I was expecting you to shove me down onto the bed."

"Are you in some kind of rush?" Derek rumbled, nipping at his chin. "I'll give you two options: you order whatever you want from room service, or we get into bed and I take you apart."

"Oh, you evil bastard," Stiles hissed. "That's not fair!"

Derek grinned at him, his eyes lidded. "What's it going to be?"

Stiles sighed, shifting around petulantly, but the answer came from his stomach, which rumbled loudly. "Food," he said grudgingly. Derek snorted and pulled away from him, stepping further into the room and flipping on a light. It was a really nice room - a big room on the corner of the building with a king-sized bed and a balcony overlooking the city. Stiles' heart twisted again at the thought of how much time and money Derek had put into this night. 

"Here," Derek said, tossing him the room service menu. "Order whatever you want."

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. "What if I want everything?"

"Don't bankrupt me," Derek replied, pulling off his shirt. "I'm going to take a shower."

"What do you want to eat?" Stiles asked, waving the menu at him. 

"Whatever you're having," Derek said with a shrug, heading for the bathroom.

"Unacceptable," Stiles muttered, plunking himself down on the bed and opening the menu. He ended up ordering steak for both of them because hey, it was going to be a busy night and they'd need the protein and, because he knew about Derek's secret sweet tooth, he tacked on a chocolate mousse dessert called the Lover's Quarrel. Stiles wrinkled his nose at the menu - apparently it was named so because it was so delicious you'll fight over who gets the last bite - but ordered it anyway. 

Derek came out of the bathroom ten minutes later, a towel slung low around his waist. Stiles wiggled his eyebrows at him. "What's with the towel? Don't tell me you've found your modesty, not after all those years of running through the woods with no shirt on."

Derek flopped down on the bed behind him, lazily smacking him in the side. "Watch your mouth," he said mildly. "Or you're not getting anything from me."

"Jackass," Stiles said cheerfully. "Food's not going to be here for a little while, so I'm gonna take a shower - unless you wanna squeeze in a quickie?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Save your appetite for the food, jesus."

"Fine," Stiles said, shoving at him playfully before heading to the bathroom. He was just climbing out of the shower when there came a knock on the room's door and he heard Derek answer, the low murmur of conversation, then the door closing. By the time he came out of the bathroom, Derek had pulled the cart to the end of the bed and was taking the covers off their plates. Stiles groaned appreciatively. "That smells so fucking good."

"I may not be able to move for several hours after eating all this," Derek said solemnly, and Stiles didn't miss the way his eyes glinted appreciatively when he lifted one cover and found the chocolate mousse. 

Stiles grinned, settling down on the edge of the bed. "Hey, there's no rush, right?"

"Right," Derek agreed softly, sitting down next to him, so close their thighs pressed together. Stiles hummed happily, briefly pressing his weight against Derek before leaning forward to grab a plate. 

Half an hour later found them both sprawled on the bed, pleasantly full. The television was on, but neither of them was paying much attention; Stiles lay on his side pressed up against Derek, head on his shoulder, fingers lazily trailing up and down his stomach. "This is perfect," he said sleepily. "You're the best boyfriend."

Derek, who had his eyes closed, made an irritated noise. “Am I supposed to infer from that that you have multiple boyfriends and of them, I’m the best?”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles sighed. “With school, you’re the only one I’ve got time for.” He grinned wickedly. “Maybe after graduation I’ll think about branching out. What do you think? We can interview possible new boyfriends together.”

Derek opened one eye to glare at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Stiles clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Spoilsport.” He gave up the joke, though, turning so he was half on top of Derek, one leg hooked between Derek’s thighs. He’d never do that to Derek.

Derek sighed softly, his hand coming up to rest against the nape of Stiles’ neck, the tips of his fingers brushing against Stiles’ hairline. “Two months ‘til you graduate,” he said quietly. “You know what you’re going to do yet?”

Stiles stilled. They hadn’t really talked yet about the future. Stiles had kind of been avoiding it, to be honest – both talking with Derek about it and just thinking about it in general. He’d focused on getting to graduation instead, but he knew it’d been bothering Derek and for him to bring it up now…Stiles could hear the worry there, even though Derek tried to be casual.

“Der,” he said softly, because if he knew one thing, it was this. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Derek opened his eyes, meeting Stiles’ gaze, and Stiles heard the click of his throat when he swallowed. “I don’t – “ he began, then frowned and started over. “Look, you don’t have to – have to stay. I know I – “

“Hold up,” Stiles said gently, pressing a finger against Derek’s lips to shut him up. “Did you bring me here to give me the opportunity to break up with you if I wanted to?”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re tied to Beacon Hills because of me. I’ve got the house and the pack and – “

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It’s not you tying me to Beacon Hills – not just you. You know how in high school, there were always people talking about how they couldn’t wait to get out? Move far away? I never wanted that. Beacon Hills is where I want to stay. Forever.”

Derek still looked worried, though some of the tension was starting to seep from his body. “You’re sure.”

“Yeah, dude,” Stiles sighed, smiling. “Why would I want to leave? Everyone who’s important to me lives there – you, my dad. It’s not like Scott’s going anywhere. We’ve been talking about finding a place – ” Derek’s expression changed and Stiles paused, aware that something had gone wrong again. “What?”

Thank God for the fact that Derek had learned how to communicate. He set his jaw and said, “I was hoping that you might want to move in with me. When the house is done.”

Stiles stared at him, his lips parting, cheeks flushing. “Oh.”

Derek dropped his eyes, biting down on his lip before gritting out, “It was just an idea. You don’t – “

“No,” Stiles breathed. “No, that’s – I’d like that. I’d really like that, okay?”

Derek swallowed again. “Really?”

“Really really,” Stiles nodded. “I – ” Here he paused, his turn to get a little shy. “I was kind of hoping you’d ask me,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to assume.”

A cautious smile spread over Derek’s face as he leaned in to press their foreheads together. “A place just for us,” he murmured, and Stiles’ heart swelled with the happiness he could hear in Derek’s voice.

“Only us,” Stiles agreed with a grin. “You think you can get it done before I graduate?”

“Easy,” Derek scoffed, flipping them in one easy motion, pressing Stiles to the bed with his weight. “Drywall’s going in next week. Now shut up so I can ravage you.”

“Gladly,” Stiles said, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck.

Stiles really hated the term “lovemaking,” and he’d die before using it in real life, but he could admit that the sex they had that night was way more than just sex. Sometimes their sex was rough and desperate and Stiles liked that a lot, but he loved this too, when Derek moved frustratingly slow, building tension with slow, steady kisses and firm hands. He rimmed Stiles for what felt like hours, the movement of his mouth and tongue an agonizing tease – until Stiles almost screamed with impatience, his heels digging into Derek’s back.

When Derek finally pushed inside him, he moved with that same slow determination, blanketing Stiles with his body, sucking bruises into his neck while his hips rolled forward over and over. All Stiles could do was cling to him, one hand fisted in his hair, mouth open, gasping for air, body ablaze with the electric drag of Derek’s cock inside him. His orgasm, when it came, came untouched and seemed to last for hours, flooding his veins with lightning. Derek bit down on his neck as Stiles’ back arched and the mix of pleasure and pain pushed a scream from his lips, his hands scrabbling against Derek’s back as he came.

It took a long moment to come back to reality, spots fading from his vision. Derek unlatched his teeth from Stiles’ neck and kissed the spot apologetically, his thumb brushing against Stiles’ cheek.

“Whoa,” Stiles said, when he could breathe again.

Derek snorted, his breath warm against Stiles’ damp skin. “You good?”

“Better than,” Stiles slurred happily. “What about you? You gonna come for me, babe?”

Derek made a slightly desperate noise and asked, “Can I knot you?”

“Sure you can,” Stiles said agreeably, patting him on the back. “Like this?”

Derek hesitated a moment then pulled back, gently nudging Stiles onto his stomach. He waited patiently for Stiles to settle down before spreading his legs wider and pushing back inside him. Stiles groaned at the new angle, canting his hips back to meet Derek, who made an approving noise – he had this tendency to go nonverbal when they were having sex. Not silent, though – for such a stoic dude, he got loud sometimes, and Stiles liked those nights a lot.

Stiles pressed his cheek against the sheets, damp with their combined sweat. Outside, the moon hung high and full over the city, massive and silver in the navy sky. Maybe hanging around werewolves for so many years had had some kind of effect on him, because he could swear he felt the moon sometimes. He felt it now, tugging at his skin, pulling at his heart, a pure, wild calling, and he clawed at the sheets, panting hoarsely as Derek thrust into him. Behind him, Derek made a rough noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, his whole body shaking. Stiles could feel Derek’s knot with every push, stretching him open.

“Der,” Stiles gasped. “Der, c’mon, c’mon, please – ”

Derek snarled, pushing into him desperately and his knot slid home, locking them together. He half-collapsed on top of Stiles, hooking his arm under Stiles’ chest, holding him still so he could grind into him. Stiles cried out, his still sensitive dick dragging against the sheets, and it wasn’t long before Derek moaned against his shoulder blades, hips juddering to a halt. Stiles exhaled hard, reaching back to grasp at the back of Derek’s neck.

“Am I squishing you?” Derek asked after a while, sounding punch-drunk.

“A little,” Stiles admitted and Derek rolled them carefully onto their sides. Stiles looked up at the moon, his whole body tingling. “D’you feel that?”

“Hmm?” Derek hummed, shoving his face against Stiles’ neck. His tongue came out, licking the salt from Stiles’ skin.

“The moon,” Stiles said quietly. He’d swear he could feel it, thrumming inside him.

“Mm,” Derek said sleepily. “Course I can. Feels strong tonight.”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured, his gaze slipping from the window to the tv. “Oh, hey, Die Hard’s on!”

“You’re ruining the afterglow,” Derek grumbled, but proved how obliging he was by scooting them around forty-five degrees so they could both see the screen easily. Stiles folded his arm over the arm Derek had wrapped around his chest, curling his fingers around Derek’s wrist, feeling the blood pumping under his warm skin. He relaxed into Derek, warm and sated and secure in the knowledge that they’d probably have sex again as soon as Derek’s knot receded.

“Hey,” Stiles said drowsily. “In a few weeks, we can do this all the time. Y’know, without having to worry about being interrupted.”

“Looking forward to it,” Derek said, nuzzling at the skin behind Stiles’ ear, warm breath ghosting against his skin. “The memory of your dad walking in on us will remain seared in my brain forever.”

“His too, if it makes you feel any better,” Stiles replied sympathetically. That incident had led to the no knotting when someone else is in the house rule, which, due to the fact that they both lived with other people and the rarity of an empty house, meant that Derek had only knotted Stiles a couple of times since they’d started dating. It was a pity, really; Stiles really liked Derek’s knot. He liked the sensation of being full, tied together – and there was something a little dangerous about it, a reminder that Derek wasn’t entirely human. He’d shifted once when Stiles was under him, claws punching through the mattress, face going hard and terrifying and fuck if Stiles hadn’t come harder than he’d ever come in his life. He was really hoping for a repeat performance sometime in the near future, because holy hell.

“What are you thinking about?” Derek murmured.

Stiles flushed and quickly said, “How I’m going to introduce you to people as my live-in sex toy.”

Derek made an outraged noise. “It’s my house,” he said. “If anything, you’re mine.”

Stiles laughed, patting him on the arm. “I know, Der. I am. One hundred percent.”

Derek made another noise but this time, it was definitely pleased.

-

They slept in late the next morning. Derek angrily said, “Fuck the late check-out fee,” and rolled on top of Stiles, riding him until they were both slick with sweat. A maid walked in on them and out again very quickly and Stiles grinned up at Derek. “There’s another person we can add to the list of people we’ve scarred with our sexual shenanigans.” Derek rolled his eyes.

When they finally checked out of the hotel, they found somewhere to eat a late brunch in the city before driving back to Davis. To Stiles' relief, the house wasn't in complete disarray, though the way all the furniture seemed slightly out of place seemed to suggest things might have gotten out of hand. The werewolves were mum about it, though, and if Derek picked up on anything he didn't say it, so Stiles didn't bother mentioning it. At any rate, Scott had left for Stanford to visit Lydia, and the others were muted from what Derek sarcastically called a moon hangover, so it was a quiet weekend. Stiles had to spend most of it working on homework and he felt bad that he couldn't pay more attention to Derek, but Derek didn't seem to mind; he hung out downstairs with the betas, or he stretched out on Stiles' bed with a book. 

Stiles was just happy he was around, to be honest, and every time he looked over at Derek he couldn't help thinking about how, in a couple months, this would be them all the time, and it made him grin every time. It didn't help that Derek kept catching him smiling and he'd smile too, like he knew what Stiles was thinking about, and that made Stiles even giddier - and also made everything worse, on Sunday when Derek and Boyd and Erica were getting ready to head back up to Beacon Hills and Stiles asked, "I'll see you in a couple of weeks?"

Derek paused in packing up his bag, passing a hand over his face. "Hm," he said thoughtfully. "The sheetrock's going up next week, and the week after that, I've got to go to Oregon."

"What? Why?" Stiles asked, his stomach sinking. "I thought you were done with all the pack alliance stuff."

"It's never done," Derek said wearily. "The Sand Mountain pack alpha's retiring so they're doing the power transference ceremony, and it's - it's a pain, but I'm kind of obliged to be there."

Stiles sighed. "Fine."

Derek turned, catching Stiles by the waist and drawing him in. "I'll come down the week after, all right?"

"Okay," Stiles agreed quietly. 

"Don't forget," Derek reminded him. "Soon this won't be a problem."

Stiles managed a smile, brightening slightly. "That's true."

"I'm really looking forward to it," Derek said, pressing their foreheads together. 

"Yeah," Stiles breathed. "I am too." He tilted his head to meet Derek for a kiss, which probably would have down-spiraled into a repeat performance of Friday night if Erica hadn't banged on the door and bellowed, "Some of us have to work tomorrow!"

Derek rolled his eyes and picked up his bag. Erica was still waiting in the hall when he opened Stiles' door and he gave her a baleful look. "I am your alpha, you know."

"Respect goes both ways," Erica sniffed, heading for the stairs. 

Stiles laughed at the exasperated look Derek gave him. "She's got a point."

"You're supposed to be on my side," Derek said mournfully, following Erica downstairs. "I take it back. I don't want you to live with me anymore." 

"Too late," Stiles said cheerfully. "No take-backs."

Derek huffed but he wasn't offended enough to not kiss Stiles goodbye as Boyd and Erica trooped out the door. "I'll see you soon," he murmured. "Love you."

"Love you too," Stiles echoed. "Have fun in Oregon."

Derek grimaced, lifting a hand in farewell as he headed out the door. Stiles waved after him, his body flooded with warmth.

Two months, he thought. Two months and he’d be out of school, living in sin with his boyfriend. Perfect.

-

The next few weeks passed more quickly than Stiles expected; he was bogged down with thesis work, meeting with advisors, trying to sort shit out for graduation. He didn’t hear from Derek much; they didn’t usually talk every day, and Derek was terrible at texting – usually his messages were complaints, like boyd and erica had sex in the shower and used up all the hot water AGAIN and Stiles would have to patiently text back well it is their apartment dude.

Derek was more eloquent the weekend he went to Oregon. He brought Erica with him because Boyd was working a double shift on Saturday and Stiles would have told him that was a mistake if Derek had told him his plan, which he didn’t. Instead, Stiles received a series of increasingly horrified texts Saturday afternoon while he worked through the second draft of his thesis.

they think we’re dating, I'm so sorry

erica’s telling everyone I give great head why why why

Stiles had to grin at that and he texted back, well, it is true, technically. you give GREAT head.

fuck you, Derek replied. Then, twenty minutes later: one of the elders asked why she’s wearing a ring and I’m not and she told them we’re going through a rough patch, HWO SAYS THAT

“What are you laughing about?” Isaac asked, coming into the kitchen, and Stiles threw his phone at him. Isaac laughed until he cried.

THEY THINK SHES CHEATING ON ME

SHE REEKS OF BOYD GOD DAMN IT

thats it, I can never come back to Oregon

Derek couldn’t make it down the following weekend as promised; heavy rainfall flooded the basement of the house and he had to spend the entire weekend pumping it dry. It was disappointing, but possibly for the best because Stiles hadn’t been feeling all that well and by Monday, he was in full-blown illness mode. He threw up everything he tried to keep down; Isaac and Scott declared the upstairs bathroom a disaster area and retreated downstairs. Stiles didn’t go to class; he crawled into bed and curled into a ball and tried to sleep while he shook with cold and sweated his ass off all at once. Time passed in a strange rush; he kept opening his eyes to darkness, then light, then darkness again. Scott popped his head into Stiles’ room every so often, offering water or food, but Stiles just groaned into his pillow.

It could have been years later when he was woken by a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently, and he rolled over to see Derek bending over him, his brow furrowed with worry.

“Der,” Stiles slurred. “What’re you doing here?”

Derek sat on the edge of the bed next to him, running his hand over Stiles’ hair. “Scott called,” he said softly. “Said you’d missed a week of classes. You haven’t answered any of my messages.”

“Sorry,” Stiles apologized blearily, rubbing at his eyes. He tried to sit up but Derek gently pushed him back down against the mattress. “Is it Friday?”

“Yeah,” Derek nodded.

Stiles groaned. “Fuck, I missed class – “

"You'll be fine," Derek interrupted. "What's going on with you? You've got a fever."

"The flu or something," Stiles sighed. "I've been throwing up all week. I feel completely wiped out."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Dunno," Stiles replied, flipping back onto his stomach. "Can't keep anything down." He sighed softly as Derek ran a hand down his back, moving in soothing circles. "Are you staying?"

"Drove all this way, didn't I?" He heard Derek shift, the sound of his shoes hitting the floor and then the mattress dipped as Derek climbed over him. Derek sank down next to him, curling a warm arm over his back, and Stiles turned his head so he could look at Derek.

"Sorry."

Derek frowned, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Stiles' neck, fingers gently kneading at the base of his skull. "For what?"

"Being sick."

"It's not your fault," Derek chided. “Besides,” he added ruefully. “I didn’t get to see you last weekend.”

Stiles snorted weakly, catching Derek’s hand and curling their fingers together. Derek smiled, rolling onto his side. “Sleep,” he said gently, and Stiles did.

-

Stiles slept for the next twelve hours without waking once – the longest he’d gone all week without being interrupted by fever dreams. When he did wake, in the darkness of night, Derek was still there next to him, laying on his back with Stiles' laptop on his stomach, watching The Walking Dead on Netflix. Stiles curled toward him and Derek reached out automatically, his hand smoothing over Stiles' hair.

"How're you feeling?"

"Tired," Stiles said absently, curling a hand over Derek's thigh. "Better."

Derek closed the laptop and turned toward Stiles, his brow furrowing in worry. "You think you could eat?"

Stiles thought about it for a moment before nodding. Derek shifted the laptop aside and climbed over him, slipping a shirt on before padding out of Stiles' room. Stiles can hear everyone in the living room downstairs when Derek opened the door, the noise going faint when the door closed behind him once more. Stiles rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling for a moment before scrubbing a hand over his eyes and picking up his phone. Derek was right; his inbox was flooded with messages from the past week - from Derek, from Scott, his dad, his classmates. He made a mental note to call his dad in the morning and shot off texts to everyone else.

Derek came back in with a glass in one hand and a plate in the other. He made Stiles sit up before Derek let him sip from the glass of water. It was delicious - Stiles hadn't realized how thirsty he was - and the food was just Ritz crackers, but they tasted better than anything he'd ever eaten. Derek watched him carefully the entire time, shaking his head when Stiles offered him a cracker.

"How does a shower sound?" Derek asked him when he's done eating.

"Why?" Stiles teased. "Do I stink?"

Derek's nose wrinkled. "No," he says, "you smell strange."

"Bad?"

"Just strange."

Stiles made a face. "Fine. Lead me to the shower so I don't offend your nose any longer."

Derek snorted and looped an arm around him, leading him to the bathroom. The shower felt like heaven, if Stiles was being honest, even better with Derek standing behind him with his arms curled around Stiles' waist, chin hooked over his shoulder. "Glad you're here," Stiles murmured.

Derek sighed. “Been too long.”

"A month too long," Stiles agreed sleepily. He was ready for another nap. Derek snorted again and let go of him to shut off the water, maneuvering him out of the tub. As they toweled off and Stiles slipped into sweatpants he hadn't spent five days in, Derek looked him up and down, his brow furrowed.

"What?" Stiles asked.

Derek stepped in close, dragging his nose up Stiles' neck, exhaling against his skin. "You still smell strange."

"Seriously?" Stiles lifted his arm and sniffed at himself. "I can't smell anything."

Derek shook his head, but when they left the bathroom and met Scott in the hall, Derek said, "Scott. Tell me if Stiles smells to you."

Scott wrinkled his nose. "Do I have to?"

Stiles glared at him. "Are you saying I smell all the time?"

"No, no," Scott said hurriedly, looking slightly guilty. "You always smell nice, dude." He made a big show of breathing in deep and then frowned. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Derek said, looking frustrated. "I know I've smelled it before."

"Okay, can we stop?" Stiles asked, feeling self-conscious. "I'm sick, all right? It's probably doing something weird to my pores."

"Maybe," Scott said doubtfully, then added with a hopeful smile. “How you feeling?”

“Fine, Mom,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “One more nap and I’ll be golden.”

“You get plenty of rest,” Scott said primly. “Derek, you better take care of him.”

Derek nodded solemnly and Stiles groaned, tugging Derek back into his bedroom. “You,” Stiles said, shaking a finger at Derek, who closed the door gently behind them. “I can see when you’re trying to smell me. The nostril flare thing isn’t all that subtle.”

“It’s bothering me,” Derek grumbled, pulling off his shirt and edging toward the bed.

“My stink is bothering you?” Stiles snapped.

Derek rolled his eyes. “You don’t stink,” he said. “It’s just different from how you usually are. And I just meant – I know I’m smelled it before and I can’t figure out where. It’s going to drive me crazy.”

“Maybe I’ve died and I’m decomposing,” Stiles retorted. “God knows you’ve been around enough dead bodies.”

Derek looked hurt. “I’m not trying to insult you,” he said.

“Then why’d you fucking bring it up?” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Fine!” Derek snapped. “Forget I said anything!”

“Fine,” Stiles snapped right back. “Can we – can we just watch a movie and not talk for a while?”

“That’s fine with me,” Derek muttered moodily. They settled into bed, Stiles’ laptop on Derek’s thighs, and watched a tense fifteen minutes of Arrow. “I’m sorry,” Derek said abruptly.

“No,” Stiles sighed. “I am. Sorry for overreacting.”

Derek turned his face, nuzzling against Stiles’ cheek. “It’s not bad,” he breathed. “I like it. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“I know somewhere you can put your finger,” Stiles teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

Derek groaned and shoved at him. “No fucking way. You’ll end up puking on me if you move around too much.” Stiles pouted and Derek sighed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” Stiles said, grinning greedily, and settled down more firmly next to Derek.

-

Stiles was dead asleep when Derek shook him awake, hissing, “Stiles, Stiles – I know what it is!”

Stiles swatted at him sleepily. "Fuck off, dude. Stop telling me I smell."

"Stiles!" Derek snapped. "I knew I'd smelled it before - when my mom was pregnant!"

“Good God, Derek, go back to sleep,” Stiles groaned. “I’m a dude. I’m not pregnant.”

“Stiles!” Derek growled, but Stiles stubbornly latched onto sleep, refusing to rise to Derek’s ire. Maybe Derek kept trying, but Stiles was successful in his attempt to return to slumber and the next time he woke it was of his own volition, the golden light of morning streaming in around the edges of his curtains. Derek lay stretched out next to him, his face loose and relaxed in slumber. Stiles threw an arm over him and Derek made a low, pleased noise, reaching for him even in sleep. Stiles smiled sleepily, beginning to drift back toward sleep until he remembered Derek waking him up in the middle of the night. He punched Derek hard in the kidney.

“Really?” Stiles hissed as Derek’s body jackknifed. “Fucking pregnant? What kind of lame-ass joke is that?”

Derek groaned, clutching at his side. When he’d gotten his breath back, he said, “It’s not a joke. All I know is, you smell like my mom did when she was pregnant with Cora.”

“Fucker,” Stiles muttered, rolling onto his side and putting his back to Derek. He glared across the room, jiggling his foot anxiously before flipping back over to face Derek. “That’s not – that’s not possible, right? That’s not some weird alpha power?”

Derek scowled. “How the hell would I know?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles exclaimed. “Didn’t your mom ever give you the sex talk?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, Stiles,” he said bitingly. “My mom definitely told me to be careful when fucking guys in the ass because they might get pregnant.”

Stiles kicked at him irritably. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “I just – why would I smell like this?” His voice went quiet at the end; he felt suddenly worried. Like, the thought of being pregnant was ridiculous, but what if something else was wrong with him?

Derek’s face softened. “Hey,” he said gently. “You’re all right.”

Stiles pressed his hands to his face, kicking his heels petulantly. “Ugghhh, but what if I’m not? You’ve got me all freaked out now!”

Derek rolled onto his side, looking at Stiles in concern. “We could call Deaton,” he said slowly. “Just ask. For peace of mind.”

Stiles hesitated before nodding. The idea of him being pregnant sounded so stupid, but after so many years of fighting the supernatural, he supposed he really shouldn’t be surprised if it was a possibility. At this point, next to nothing surprised him. So he handed Derek his phone and rolled onto his side, watching Derek scroll through his contacts until he reached Deaton’s number. Stiles waited, holding his breath while the phone rang. He was grateful for the arm Derek curled around him, pulling him close.

“Derek?” Deaton asked.

“Hi,” Derek said cautiously, and cleared his throat. “I, uh, have a question.”

Deaton made a considering noise. “Yes?”

Derek looked at Stiles, who nodded slowly. “Can I – is it possible for werewolves to, uh, impregnate men?”

There came a long, tense silence. Stiles half expected – hoped, really – Deaton to burst out laughing and tell them they were idiots, but what he said instead was, “Yes. It’s almost unheard of, but under the right circumstances, it is possible.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide and Derek croaked, “What circumstances?”

“If I remember my lore correctly,” Deaton said patiently, “the werewolf must be an alpha, and his partner must be knotted on the full moon – “

“Shit,” Stiles mumbled, feeling suddenly queasy. Derek’s arm tightened around him.

“I’m assuming you’re not asking this ‘just because,’” Deaton said, too observant for his own good, as always. “Are you – “

“No!” Derek snapped, and hung up the phone. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, tapping his phone against his lips before he said, “Stiles – ”

“Don’t,” Stiles snarled, shoving himself away from Derek and out of bed. He staggered down the hallway and into the bathroom – to the surprise of Isaac, who was in there shaving – and threw up into the toilet.

“Gross,” Isaac complained, backing out of the room and straight into Derek, who’d followed Stiles down the hall.

Derek sighed quietly and filled up a glass of water, which he handed to Stiles once he’d stopped dry-heaving. Stiles swilled a mouthful of water around in his mouth and spat it into the toilet before getting to his feet. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he said to Derek, who’d taken a step forward.

Derek blinked, his face going shuttered. “Stiles,” he said, and Stiles could tell by the unsteadiness in his voice that he was trying not to get angry. “I didn’t know. And we don’t even – you might not be – ”

“Just stop,” Stiles interrupted, feeling bone-weary. His mouth tasted like bile. “Can we not? I just – maybe you should go home.”

Derek shut his mouth, his brow furrowing, but he turned on his heel and strode back to Stiles’ room. By the time Stiles got back, Derek was already pulling his shoes on, his mouth thin. “We need to talk about this,” he said shortly, glaring down at his laces.

“Not right now,” Stiles said, almost pleaded. “Please.”

Derek nodded, his jaw tightening, and got to his feet. Stiles caught his hand as he headed for the door and Derek turned to look at him, his face grim. “I’m not – I’m not mad, exactly,” Stiles told him. “Not at you. I just – I need to think. I’ll call you.”

Derek nodded again. “Okay.”

Stiles took a deep breath and stepped in close to Derek, throwing his arms around his neck. Derek exhaled, deep and shuddering, and pulled him in close, hugging him so tight he could barely breathe. “I love you,” Derek murmured. “No matter what.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, clenching his eyes shut tight so he wouldn’t cry. “Me too.”

-

Stiles spent the next week resolutely not thinking about the possibility that there was a baby growing inside him. If he even tried, his breath started to get quick and if that went on for too long, spots started dancing in his vision, so all and all it was better to just avoid the thought completely.

Except he couldn’t. First there was Scott, who would not stop asking what he and Derek had been arguing about, and he kept lifting his head and scenting the air whenever Stiles came into the room, smugly announcing that Stiles still smelled weird. Worse, Isaac had picked up on it too, and loudly agreed with Scott every time he mentioned it. So that wasn’t helpful.

And really, when Stiles laid in bed at night, what else was there to think about? Well, beside his thesis paper and graduation, but he was pretty much done with thesis stuff at this point, and he’d picked up his cap and gown a couple of weeks ago. He kept finding himself with his hand on his stomach, fingers trailing over his skin, and no amount of hissing “You’re not pregnant,” at himself in the mirror was actually going to make the baby, if it existed, go away.

Derek texted him on Thursday, and Stiles felt even worse because despite his promise, he hadn’t called Derek. And to be fair, Derek hadn’t called him, but he knew that was because Derek was trying to give him space, because he was a good person, really, and deserved a lot better than a boyfriend than Stiles, who’d kicked him out of the house.

The message said: i talked to deaton. according to him, you’re far enough along that you’d be able to see it on an ultrasound. if it exists.

Stiles bit his lip. On the one hand, it’d be good to confirm or deny the existence of his baby – at the moment, it was kind of a Schrodinger’s baby and not knowing whether it was real or not was stressing him the fuck out. On the other hand, though, if he did get checked out and found out that he was indeed pregnant, what the fuck was he going to do?

He needed to think about it, as much as it scared him. Actually being pregnant aside, did he even want kids? Was he ready? He was twenty-two, about to graduate from college with no job lined up. As far as he knew, his only big plan for the future was to move in with Derek. And what about Derek? Did Derek want kids? They’d never talked about it, but Stiles was pretty certain he did – werewolves were all about family, and it wasn’t like Derek had much of one left. Not that Stiles did either.

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d never given much thought to himself with kids, but thinking of Derek laughing with a baby in his arms made his heart hurt. He’d do it, he decided in that instant. If Derek wanted a baby, he’d fucking do it.

He picked up his phone and replied to Derek’s text.

I’ll come home this weekend and we can go together.

-

Stiles ended up driving home on Friday night with Scott, which was not part of his plan, but at least it gave him the opportunity to finish up the final draft of his thesis on the drive. Scott had already finished up school, but he was at Sacramento State and Stiles was at UC Davis; there was only a week of school left, and then graduation two weeks after that. Isaac was at Davis too and he’d stayed home because he was majoring in studio art and needed to finish up some paintings for his thesis show. Scott talked a lot on the drive; Lydia had banned him from visiting for the next two weeks while she finished up her own studies, and he was bored, Stiles, bored.

“You can start packing, if you’re so bored,” Stiles replied absently, balancing his laptop on his knees and running spell-check for the umpteenth time. They needed to be out of the house two days after graduation.

Scott made a face. “You sure you want to move in with Derek? Think about how fun the last two years have been.”

“I’m not disputing that,” Stiles said, grinning over at him. “Why don’t you get a place with Lydia?”

Scott shrugged, looking a little sad. “She’s not sure how long she’s sticking around. Grad school starts in the fall.”

Stiles sighed. “This is going to be worse than that semester in high school when Allison was studying abroad in France, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Scott protested, then added sheepishly, “Was it?”

“Oh, buddy,” Stiles sighed again, patting him on the thigh. “You really need to stop using girls as your anchor.”

“What about you?” Scott goaded. “You’ve been Derek’s anchor for years.”

“I have not!” Stiles argued. “We’ve only been dating a year!”

“Didn’t stop him,” Scott said haughtily.

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered, hunching over his laptop.

Scott laughed, punching him gently in the arm. “Hey, he loves you a lot, okay? So fix whatever you guys were arguing about.”

Stiles breathed out slowly, biting back the urge to tell Scott everything. “We will, I promise.”

-

They drove up in the Jeep, which meant they had to stop off first at Scott’s house before Stiles could head to his dad’s house. Derek was already there, the Camaro parked on the street, and when Stiles went inside he found his father and his boyfriend lounging in the living room, watching a Giants game.

“What’s this?” Stiles asked, leaning against the frame of the living room door. “No one loves me enough to meet me at the front door?”

“I just got off a sixteen-hour shift,” his father replied grumpily. “I’m not getting up for anyone.”

“What’s your excuse?” Stiles asked Derek, who smiled lazily and got to his feet, following Stiles into the kitchen. He sniffed the air appreciatively. “What’s cooking?”

“Pot roast,” Derek replied, looking smug. “Melissa’s been teaching me how to cook.”

“Smells like success,” Stiles grinned as Derek moved forward, caging him against the counter. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Derek breathed, pressing his face against Stiles’ neck and inhaling deeply. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured, digging his fingers into Stiles’ hips.

“Save it for later, Der,” Stiles hummed. “I’m home all weekend.”

Derek managed a quick kiss before a timer on the stove buzzed and he gently moved Stiles aside, bending to check on the meat in the oven. Stiles watched him move around the kitchen with a smile. He knew that Derek came over sometimes even when Stiles wasn’t there, and he loved that Derek would spend time with his dad – there was a time in his high school years when Dad probably would have shot Derek on sight. Now, Stiles knew for a fact that they’d spent two months together renovating the living room. At this point, Derek probably knew the house better than Stiles did.

Derek glanced over at him as he pulled the roast from the oven, the soft look on his face furrowing into a frown. Stiles realized that he’d been standing with his hand on his stomach again and swallowed, looking away quickly.

“Food’s ready,” Derek said quietly. “If you want to go get your dad.”

Stiles nodded and slipped out of the kitchen.

“Everything all right?” his dad asked sleepily, when Stiles roused him from his chair. “You’re looking pale, kid.”

Stiles grimaced. “Still getting over that stomach thing, I guess.”

His father clapped him on the back as they headed into the kitchen. “You’re taking care of yourself, right?”

Stiles caught Derek’s eye and flushed. “Yeah, of course.”

After dinner, Scott showed up with Boyd and Isaac. Stiles' father threw his hands up in defeat and disappeared upstairs as everyone threw themselves down in the living room for a movie night. Stiles fell asleep with his head in Derek’s lap and his feet in Scott’s, Derek’s fingers slowly stroking through his hair, over and over.

The next morning, Derek woke him early, and they rose together, dressing and eating breakfast in near silence. Anxiety curled in the depths of Stiles’ stomach; he shook his head when Derek offered him coffee. Derek put a hand on his thigh, his fingers tensing against his jeans.

“Stiles,” he said softly. “This – ”

Stiles drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes before meeting Derek’s gaze. “Let’s hold off talking about it,” he said. “Just until we find out if it’s real or not.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed quietly, taking hold of his hand. “You want me to drive?”

The veterinary clinic wasn’t open when they arrived, but Deaton unlocked the door for them with a faint smile. Stiles sat on the examination table, fidgeting nervously while Deaton prepared the ultrasound equipment.

“Usually I’m looking at cats and dogs,” he told them, his voice mild. “Once, a llama.”

“Haha,” Stiles said, jiggling his leg anxiously. Derek put a hand on his shoulder, thumb sweeping against the back of his neck. “I, uh, was sick all last week.”

“It’s unlikely that had anything to do with this,” Deaton replied calmly. “From what Derek said, it sounded more like the flu.”

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

He lifted up his shirt at Deaton’s nod, shuddering at the cool touch of the wand against his stomach. The room remained quiet for a few minutes, Deaton’s eyes fixed on the screen. Stiles stared desperately at it, but he didn’t know what he was looking for – it looked like a bunch of static to him.

“Here,” Deaton said after a minute. He raised a hand, pointing to a dark spot on the screen. “Keep in mind that I don’t work with humans, but I believe this is the gestational sac – it surrounds the embryo. In another week or so, we should be able to see the embryo itself.”

“So I’m pregnant,” Stiles whispered, his mouth dry as the desert.

“Yes,” Deaton nodded, his eyes soft.

“I – “ Stiles exhaled harshly, suddenly struggling to find the air to draw into his lungs. Derek moved swiftly around the table, drawing Stiles to his chest. Stiles clutched at his shirt, breathing raggedly.

Derek swept his hands up and down his back, murmuring, “Breathe for me, Stiles. You’re all right.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe in slow and deep. “I’m okay,” he muttered, but it took a long moment for Derek to step back. “Sorry.”

Derek squeezed his hand and looked at Deaton. “What can you tell us? Is this – would there be anything strange about this baby?”

Deaton shook his head. “I’ll have to do some research. Like I said, this type of pregnancy is almost unheard of.” He gave Stiles a mild look. “If you decide you don’t want this, I’m sure I can figure something out.”

Stiles breathed in sharply, his hand tightening around Derek’s. “We – we need to talk about it.”

Deaton nodded patiently. “You have time.”

After leaving the office, Derek drove them out to the preserve, and up the winding dirt road to where the old Hale house used to stand. It wasn’t there anymore; Derek had had it torn down before he started construction on the new house. The new house itself stood closer to the road, tucked amongst the trees. Derek pulled up in front of it and Stiles leaned forward to look up at the façade, at the new windows still covered in stickers.

“Do you want to look inside?” Derek asked. “You haven’t seen it since it was just a frame.”

“It’s almost done, isn’t it?” Stiles replied with a faint smile. “I can wait another couple of weeks.”

“All right,” Derek said softly. “You want to go sit?”

“I think we should,” Stiles nodded. He and Derek climbed out of the car and Derek led him around to the back of the house, where there was a low deck of fresh new wood, and a couple of cheap plastic lawn chairs. Derek motioned Stiles to sit and disappeared inside the house. When he reappeared, he held a glass of water in his hand, which he passed to Stiles, sinking down into the chair next to him.

They sat in silence for a while, Stiles staring out over the trees while he sipped at the water. Finally, he said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Me?” Derek asked. “What about you?”

“Not fair,” Stiles smiled at him. “I asked you first.”

Derek looked toward the woods. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said quietly. “Whatever you decide – it’s fine.”

Stiles twisted in his chair, reaching for Derek, who gave him his hand. “What do you want, Der? Do you want kids?”

Derek kept his eyes fixed on the trees, the muscles in his jaw working before he mumbled, “More than anything.”

“Derek,” Stiles said quietly, and Derek looked at him quickly.

“Don’t make this decision because of me,” he said sharply. “I – “ He swung his head away, his mouth tightening. “I can wait.”

Stiles climbed to his feet, moving to stand in front of Derek. Derek looked up at him silently, his face creased with unhappiness. Stiles moved forward to straddle Derek in the chair, bracing his hands against Derek’s shoulders. Derek moved automatically to steady him, hands on his hips, but he didn’t speak, his eyes trained on Stiles’ face.

“I want to do this,” Stiles said clearly, and Derek’s eyes widened.

“You don’t – “ Derek exhaled forcefully. “You need to think about this.”

“I have,” Stiles said softly, cupping Derek’s face in his hands. “Right now, we’re in a period of transition, right?” He nodded toward the house. “Moving here. Graduation. It’s as good a time as any.”

Derek frowned. “That’s not – you’re still young, Stiles. What about work?”

Stiles shrugged. “I can do it from home. Hell, I could do an online Master’s program if I wanted.”

“You had a panic attack – ”

“I can’t freak out because I’m a fucking dude and I’m having a baby?” Stiles replied sarcastically. His face softened. “I want to give you a family, Der.”

Derek’s lips parted, the expression on his face so raw and hopeful that it hurt Stiles to look at. Stiles brushed his thumbs against Derek’s cheekbones. “Let’s do this together, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek said hoarsely, his grip on Stiles’ hips tightening. “Thank you.”

Stiles pressed their foreheads together, pressing a kiss to the tip of Derek’s nose. “I love you, puppy.”

-

“Should we tell anyone?” Stiles asked a while later, slumping against Derek’s chest. He wasn’t wearing pants any more, and Derek’s were pushed down to his knees. Derek’s hair was sticking up at some odd angles from where Stiles had been pulling at it, and Stiles’ chest was dotted with red bite marks.

Derek hummed in consideration, stroking his hands down Stiles’ damp thighs. “I don’t think so,” he said eventually. “Women don’t usually, do they? Not until a certain amount of time’s passed.”

“Hm,” Stiles said thoughtfully, closing his eyes as Derek nuzzled against his temple. “Makes sense.”

“The betas and Scott will notice,” Derek told him. “But they’re not born wolves, so I don’t think they’ll be able to figure it out.”

“Scott and Isaac keep making fun of me,” Stiles sighed. “Asshats.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment, still idly sliding his hands up and down Stiles’ thighs. “I could stay,” he said eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“With you,” Derek replied. “In Davis.”

“No, you’re not,” Stiles said automatically.

Derek frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t need you hovering over my shoulder!” Stiles retorted. “It’s only three weeks! I’m not going to suddenly balloon up and lose the ability to see my feet and pick up things I’ve dropped.” Stiles frowned up at the roof. “Am I? How long is the werewolf gestational period?”

“Nine months,” Derek replied, sounding put out. “Stiles, I – ”

“Three weeks,” Stiles said again, more gently. “I’ll be fine. Besides, you need to finish up this house. If I have to move back into Dad’s house, he’ll never let me leave.”

“Fine,” Derek sighed, looking a little despondent.

“Cheer up, Der,” Stiles said, climbing to his feet and jerking his pants back up. He gestured around at the backyard. “Soon this will be us every day. We’ll have lazy mornings, barbeques – ”

“I already promised your dad I’d host your graduation party,” Derek put in wryly.

“Oh, god, my dad,” Stiles groaned. “We gotta tell him.”

Derek looked suddenly nervous, glancing around like Stiles’ father might come charging out of the bushes at him, guns blazing. “Is he going to be mad?”

“Probably,” Stiles sighed. “Let’s put it off, shall we?”

“Let’s,” Derek agreed.

-

They spent that night at Derek’s place, at the apartment he shared with Boyd and Erica. When Boyd proposed half a year back, Erica had proclaimed that there was no way in hell she was going to have some over-the-top, extravagant wedding – in fact, she’d declared, she and Boyd were just going to get married at the town hall with Derek as a witness, so Stiles was amused to see the coffee table piled high with fabric samples, color swatches, and a whole assortment of wedding-related ephemera.

“You can laugh or you can tell me which of these greens you like, Stilinski,” Erica growled, not looking up from a swatch book spread open across her knees.

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who threw his hands up in a way that clearly said I have been down this road and there is no victory at the end. “Can’t I do both?” he asked cautiously, dropping down onto the couch next to her while Derek headed into the kitchen.

“Choose,” Erica demanded, pushing the book into his hands.

“Oh, uh,” Stiles blinked down at the page. He pointed to the swatch on the right. “This one?”

Erica nodded briskly, yanking it back out of his hands. “That’s three against one,” he said triumphantly. “Derek’s wrong.”

“Apparently I have a terrible eye for color,” Derek said sarcastically, coming back into the room with two beers, one of which he handed to Stiles.

“Thanks,” Stiles said absently, leaning into Derek when he flopped down next to Stiles. He put the bottle to his lips and was just about to take a sip when Derek jolted forward, snatching the bottle out of his hand. “Hey – “

“I – the bottle’s cracked,” Derek said, glaring at him.

“What?”

“The bottle,” Derek said firmly, jabbing a finger into Stiles’ stomach. Stiles frowned at him, perplexed, and then realized – he couldn’t drink, not with a baby.

“Dammit,” Stiles scowled. “This sucks.”

“There’s more in the fridge,” Erica murmured, making a note in her book. “Keep your panties on. Babe,” she added, calling out to Boyd, who was moving around in the kitchen. “Grab Stiles another beer.”

“I’ll get it,” Derek said hurriedly, jumping to his feet. Stiles glared at the television as Derek went back into the kitchen. He was going to have to do a lot of research. Was his magic baby even like a regular baby? Who the fuck knew?

In the kitchen, there came the sound of smashing glass and Erica groaned. “Seriously, Derek?”

Stiles snorted as Derek called, “Sorry!”

“You owe us a new six-pack, man,” Boyd said reproachfully.

-

"I saw your face," Derek said later, when they were lying in his bed. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"What, because I can't drink?" Stiles scoffed. "No way." He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Derek. "There's just - there's a lot of stuff to think about, you know? To learn and remember."

Derek nodded solemnly. "We'll do it together," he said. 

Stiles smiled faintly. "Yeah," he said softly. "We will." He let Derek tug him down, covering him like a blanket, breathing slow as Derek nosed at his cheek. "D'you think there's going to be anything, uh, weird about it?"

Derek huffed. "What?"

"I just mean - " Stiles gestured vaguely. "You know. Because of how it was conceived. Maybe it'll be, like, a super alpha or something?"

"I doubt that's the case," Derek replied dryly. He dragged his fingers through Stiles' hair, adding thoughtfully. "I'll do some research this week, see if I can find something out."

"I'm supposed to be the researcher," Stiles complained.

"You've got school to finish," Derek retorted. 

"My hero," Stiles drawled, flopping down on top of him. Derek grunted but curled an arm around Stiles' shoulders, pressing a kiss to the crook of his neck. "We're gonna be the best dads ever," Stiles muttered. 

"Yeah," Derek breathed. "Yeah, we are."

-

"You're quiet," Scott said on the drive back to Davis, jolting Stiles out of a contemplative silence. Scott tapped his fingers against the armrest. "Did you work everything out with Derek?"

"Yeah," Stiles replied, smiling faintly. "It's all good, dude."

Scott gave him a quick look before looking out the window. "You know, every time you guys see each other, I kind of expect you to come away wearing a ring."

"What?" Stiles exclaimed. 

Scott shrugged, looking amused. "It's true, dude. Lydia thought for sure he'd ask on your anniversary. Maybe he's just waiting until graduation."

Stiles stared at the road ahead, his cheeks flushing. Would Derek ask Stiles to marry him? He didn't want Derek to feel like they had to because of the baby or anything, but if he'd been planning it before...

"Would you say yes?" Scott asked slyly, glancing at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. "If he asked?"

"I think so," Stiles said, his throat tightening. He knew so. He'd been in love with Derek for like five years; there was no fucking way he'd say no if Derek asked him - baby or no baby. He coughed. "What about you and Lydia?"

Scott's smile went soft, his gaze far away. "She said she'd cut my balls off if I even thought about proposing before she was finished with grad school."

"How romantic," Stiles grinned. 

"Shut up," Scott laughed, and they spent the rest of the drive home laughing about stupid shit. It was fun, but it left Stiles feeling a little sad because he knew that in a few weeks, there'd be no more long drives back and forth from Beacon Hills, no more living with Scott and Isaac - no more stupid pranks and late night pizza runs. Stiles knew that things would change as they grew older, and he and Scott would always be best friends, but it wasn't like knowing that made him feel any better. 

-

A couple weeks passed. Stiles handed in his thesis work, washed his hands of school, and settled down to the slightly daunting task of packing up the house. It was a little alarming how much shit the three of them had managed to accumulate in the last two years. Stiles spent a lot of time sitting on the floor, sorting through piles of papers and knick-knacks. He stumbled across a lot of stuff he'd forgotten about, including a fairly important financial aid form he'd put between two textbooks, and one of those photo booth strips from his and Derek's first real date. Stiles paused over the photos. He'd had to drag Derek into the booth in the first place, so Derek was only half in the first photo, and he had his eyes closed in all the subsequent shots, but Stiles still smiled. It had been a good night; after the photos, Derek had blown him in the darkness of the mall parking garage. 

Stiles checked his phone idly. He hadn't heard much from Derek; he was working hard on the house, which was why he wasn't coming back down to Davis until the weekend of graduation, as much as Stiles knew he probably wanted to. He patted his stomach absently, missing him. He'd texted almost every day and they Skyped a couple of times. Derek told him - over text, because neither of them wanted to talk about the baby out loud when there was a chance any of the pack might overhear - that he hadn't had any luck finding anything out and Deaton was still looking, but what they did know what that a child carried by a male impregnated by an alpha was called a gamma and it was almost certainly going to be a werewolf. Derek was ridiculously pleased, but Stiles was pretty sure he'd be pleased even if their baby came out with four arms and two heads. 

Graduation was three days away. The house was mostly packed up. Everything was louder, sounds amplified by the lack of objects to dampen the noise. Stiles hadn't jacked off in a week because it'd been awkward enough before, living in a house with two dudes with super-hearing, and with everything a lot louder, he felt self-conscious. He hadn't really been feeling it, anyway - probably something to do with his hormones, he guessed - but finally there came a night when Scott and Isaac headed out for the bars. Stiles could have gone with them, but it wasn't much fun when he couldn't drink, so he stayed home and gladly took the opportunity to jerk off. It was a good one, too, curling his toes and arching his back right off the bed. It would have been nice if he could have shared it with Derek, but he hadn't been available for phone sex - he was over at Stiles' dad's house having bonding time and there was no way Stiles was going to interrupt that. Stiles rolled onto his stomach - enjoy that while it lasted, he thought grimly - and fell asleep. 

He woke abruptly in the middle of the night, an uneasy feeling shuddering down his spine. He rolled onto his side, picking himself up on one elbow, and froze when he noticed a dark figure standing in his doorway. Its eyes glowed red. "Der?" he asked sleepily. But no, that wasn't right - Derek was in Beacon Hills. "Scott?"

The figure shifted its weight and Stiles' eyes adjusted enough to see that yeah, it was definitely Scott, but he didn't speak. There was something wrong, Stiles realized. He could see the harsh turn of his brow, the hair along his jawline - Scott was in the beta shift. "Scott," Stiles said again, his skin breaking out into goosebumps. He carefully flipped himself over, eyes on Scott the entire time, and reached for his phone, fingers closing around the cold plastic. "Scott, whatever's going on, just take a deep breath okay, buddy? Think about Lydia."

Scott made a low, rumbling noise that gave Stiles pause. He'd heard Derek make that noise, usually right before he tackled Stiles to the nearest horizontal surface, but coming from Scott it sounded dangerous, unfriendly. 

"O-okay," Stiles said shakily, sitting up slowly. "I'm just gonna - "

Scott pounced, bounding across the room at Stiles in three long strides, but Stiles was ready and threw himself to the side, hitting the floor as Scott hit his bed. He scrambled to his feet as the sound of tearing cloth came from above him, and he didn't stop there - he ran for the hall, reaching the stairs just as Scott hit the wall behind him. 

"Isaac!" Stiles bellowed. "Isaac!" All of his wolfsbane was boxed up - so was his bat - and he hadn't been able to find his spark for a couple weeks now, so mountain ash was out of the question. He needed backup, and he just prayed that Isaac hadn't found someone at a bar to go home with. He skidded into the kitchen, just barely keeping himself upright. Behind him, Scott hit the front door with a furious snarl but, to Stiles' faint relief, he heard Isaac come pounding down the stairs. Stiles dived for the knives - he'd never hurt Scott if he could avoid it, but he also knew that he couldn't be able to do much damage, and protecting himself - and the baby, he realized frantically - was more important than Scott's temporary discomfort. 

Stiles whipped around, a long carving knife in hand, just as Scott barreled into the kitchen, Isaac close behind him. Stiles raised the knife, ready to defend himself, but Isaac managed to grab Scott by the waist just as he leapt forward to attack. 

"Dude!" Isaac panted, struggling to hold onto Scott. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Stiles retorted nervously, backing into the counter. 

Isaac grunted as Scott tried to lunge forward. "You better get out of here," he said, his eyes flashing gold. "He's obviously after you."

Stiles nodded, setting down the knife and carefully edging past Scott and Isaac, who exhaled harshly. Stiles jolted sideways at the noise. "What?"

"You - " Isaac took a deep breath. "Your scent, it - " He cut himself off and added, sounding slightly strangled, "You should probably call Derek."

"Yeah," Stiles said warily. "I'll just - I'll go drive around for a while." He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and slipped outside. It wasn't until he got into the Jeep and sat for a moment that he realized he was only wearing boxers but he wasn't going back into the house now. He glanced up nervously at the house and waited until he'd pulled out onto the street before he called Derek. 

"'lo?" Derek sighed sleepily. 

"Hey," Stiles said, biting his tongue as he tried to think of a diplomatic way to say what he needed to. "Uh."

"Is something wrong?" Derek asked, sounding sharper and more awake by the moment. "It's two in the morning, Stiles."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles sighed. "Look, uh, Scott - Scott just tried to attack me."

"What?" Derek snapped. "What the fuck happened?"

"I don't know," Stiles said wearily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I woke up and he was standing in the doorway and then he jumped at me. Isaac said something about my scent." He hunched over in the driver's seat, suddenly struck with anxiety. "Der, what if it's the baby? What if there's something about the way it smells that, I don't know, makes other werewolves crazy? What am I going to do?"

"Nothing," Derek said shortly. "I'm coming down. Are you still at the house?"

"No," Stiles replied, shaking his head. "Isaac looked like he might flip in a second, and he was having a hard enough time with Scott. I'm sitting in my car now."

"Just stay there," Derek growled. Stiles could hear him moving around, opening drawers. "I'll be down as soon as I can."

Stiles sighed. "Don't rush," he said. "You're not going to do me any good if you get pulled over, and Scott's probably going to get over it in a couple of minutes - "

"Don't go back to the house," Derek said furiously. 

"I'm not, I'm not," Stiles reassured him. "I'll just go to the park and ride and try to sleep."

"Okay," Derek said more quietly, subsiding. "I'll call you when I get down there."

"Okay," Stiles agreed softly. "I'll see you soon." 

He hung up and drove out to the park and ride over on Mace Boulevard. He found a sweatshirt in the back of the Jeep, jerking it over his head so he didn't feel quite so exposed. He found a blanket too, and curled up in the backseat with his hood pulled over his head. Sleep wasn't coming, though - he was too full of adrenaline after being chased through the house by Scott. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Scott hadn't lost control like that in a long time; the last time Stiles could remember was over winter break their freshman year at school when a warlock had magicked him feral.

What if it was the baby, though? Did that mean that Stiles would have to avoid Scott for the entirely of his pregnancy? He didn't think he could go without seeing Scott for nine months - and what if his reaction didn't stop after the kid was born? There was no way he could go the rest of his life without seeing Scott. He called Derek. 

"I'm freaking out," Stiles said when Derek picked up. "Talk to me about something boring, please." 

Derek heaved an irritated sigh, but proved he loved Stiles by talking about the house for the next two hours, from boring details about the wainscoting to the fact that he was glad he hadn't fired the painter who smelled like weed because he'd done a hell of a job. Derek didn't even get mad when Stiles did fall asleep on him, lulled into calm by the steady sound of his voice. When Derek rapped on the window of the Jeep some time later, Stiles jolted awake but was quick to clamber out of the car and into his open arms. 

"You look ridiculous," Derek muttered against his temple. 

"Sorry I didn't have time to grab pants, asshat," Stiles retorted. "You ready to go wrestle with an out of control alpha?"

"You better hope no one's called the cops on him yet," Derek replied dryly. "Are we riding together?"

"You can follow me," Stiles said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. Derek nodded and they drove back into town a couple minutes later. Scott and Isaac were sitting on the front stoop, looking dejected. They got to their feet as Stiles and Derek pulled up. Scott opened his mouth as Stiles got out of the Jeep, but before either of them could say anything, Derek bolted past him and slammed into Scott, bearing him down to the porch, roaring in his face. 

"Derek!" Stiles hissed, storming after him. Isaac looked around nervously and tried to pull Derek off Scott, who was struggling underneath him. Stiles joined him, yanking Derek backwards. "Are you fucking kidding me? What were you just saying about people calling the police?"

Derek growled furiously but made no attempt to stop Scott from sitting up. 

"Dude, I'm sorry," Scott said - to Stiles, not Derek. "I don't know what happened."

"Can we take this inside?" Isaac asked anxiously. 

Stiles nodded sharply and asked Derek, "Are you going to behave?"

Derek bared his teeth irritably, but acquiesced to heading inside. Scott kept trying to apologize to Stiles, who waved him off. "You just scared me, buddy. No harm done, seriously." He nudged Derek, who was looking around the house with a frown on his face. "You gonna apologize for knocking Scott over?"

"Sorry," Derek grumbled reluctantly. "What happened here?"

Scott shook his head. "I'm not sure. Isaac and I were out and we came home around midnight, played games for a while and then - " He frowned. "I went upstairs and I just - I don't know. Lost myself." 

Derek frowned at him, then glanced toward the ceiling. "I'm going to check it out," he said, and stalked toward the stairs, his shoulders rigid. 

Scott sighed and looked over at Stiles. "I'm really sorry, man."

Stiles gave him a tired smile. "Don't worry about it, dude. I know it wasn't on purpose."

Derek's voice came echoing down the stairs. "Stiles, come here!" 

Stiles rolled his eyes and headed upstairs. Derek stood in the hallway outside his room, arms crossed over his chest, glaring into Stiles' room. "What'd you find?"

Derek gave him a dark look. "Did you jerk off earlier?" 

"Dude," Stiles blinked. "Yeah, I did. I mean - is that a problem?"

Derek sighed, sounding frustrated. "It reeks of hormones up here," he said more quietly. "More than usual. I think it's because of - " He pointed at Stiles' stomach, looking pained. 

"Are you kidding me?" Stiles hissed. "Are you saying I can never jerk off again?"

"That's not - " Derek cut himself off, his pained look increasing in intensity. "It's a pack thing, I think. Isaac wouldn't have hurt you; if anything, he would have felt the need to protect you. That's what I'm getting right now. But Scott - "

"He's another alpha," Stiles realized grimly. "Am I a threat?"

"Not you - it," Derek said with a nod toward his stomach. "A weak spot. Alphas aren't supposed to co-exist." 

Stiles put a hand on his stomach, feeling sick. "What does this mean - for us, I mean?"

"I don't know," Derek said softly. "It might get worse the further along you get. Don't freak out," he added quickly, seeing Stiles' face. "We'll talk to Deaton. Hopefully he'll have a better idea of what's going to happen."

Stiles nodded dejectedly, then turned as Scott and Isaac came up the stairs looking worried. "Look, we can hear you," Scott said with an anxious frown. "What's going on?"

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who shrugged helplessly and said, "It's up to you if you want to tell them."

"Tell us what?" Isaac demanded. 

Stiles sighed. He was too tired for this. "I'm having a baby," he told them. 

Scott stared at him, perplexed, his eyes moving quickly between Stiles and Derek. "You - with someone else? You cheated on Derek?"

"No, Scott," Stiles sighed again. "Me. I'm having the baby."

Isaac's mouth dropped open. Scott looked even more bewildered. "I - I don't understand."

"It's simple, Scotty," Stiles said with a slightly manic grin. "Derek and I had some freaky full-moon sex and now I'm pregnant."

Scott looked at Derek for help, but all Derek did was shrug. "Oh my god," Scott said blankly. 

"Yeah, that just about sums it up," Stiles said, glancing over at Derek, who sighed.

"So what happened earlier," Scott said anxiously, "that was because of the baby?"

"As far as I can tell," Derek said, stepping up beside Stiles. 

"So what do we do?" Scott asked. "I don't want to hurt Stiles!"

"We'll talk to Deaton when you're all back in Beacon Hills," Derek repeated. "We'll figure something out."

"Exactly," Stiles said determinedly. "There's no way I'm missing out on my Scott time."

Isaac snorted. "You sure that baby's yours, Derek?" he asked sarcastically. "I can think of another werewolf that might be to blame."

"Shut up," Stiles said cheerfully. "You're just jealous."

"That you're going to be pooping out a baby in a couple of months?" Isaac grimaced. "No thanks." He brushed past all of them, adding, "I'm going to bed."

"Sounds like a solid idea," Derek agreed, stepping into Stiles' room. 

Stiles looked at Scott. "Don't tell anyone, okay? We wanted to keep it quiet for a while."

"Sorry it had to come out this way, then," Scott said ruefully. "But hey - congrats, I guess!" 

"Thanks, dude," Stiles replied, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. "I - we can talk in the morning, all right?"

"Sure," Scott smiled. "Night, man."

Stiles watched him disappear into his room before retreating into his own, quietly closing the door behind him. He padded over to the bed, pulling off his sweatshirt and crawling in next to Derek, who was already asleep but shifted to make a space next to him for Stiles, who tucked himself up against him and quickly fell into slumber, exhausted from the night’s events.

-

Derek refused to leave after that, even though Stiles assured him he’d refrain from jerking off until after moving back to Beacon Hills. He didn’t mind all that much, to be honest; it was fun having Derek around the house, and it wasn’t like Scott and Isaac minded him being around, either. It also meant that there was someone to help them carry boxes and furniture down to the first floor and now that Isaac and Scott knew about the baby, Stiles played it up until Isaac shoved him into a wall for throwing a pretend fit about carrying a box of books downstairs.

Graduation was on a Sunday. Stiles’ dad, Scott’s mom, Boyd, and Erica drove down from Beacon Hills together, but separated to head to Stiles’ and Scott’s graduations, which were at the same time. They’d all made it to Isaac’s, which was earlier in the morning, and Stiles was glad for that – Isaac may not have any blood relatives any more, but he had the pack. He’d never seen Isaac or Derek look so emotional (the big babies – he was going to lord Derek’s watery eyes over him for months).

Stiles’ graduation ceremony was long and boring. He had to sit with the rest of the Letters and Science school and fidgeted the entire time, biting back several thousand yawns. He couldn’t even care that he nearly tripped in front of the entire crowd when he was called for his diploma because finally, finally, it was over and he somehow managed to find his dad in the crowd. His dad was crying and okay, Stiles hadn’t planned on crying, but seeing his dad might have made him a little weepy, and then Derek was right there and he pulled Stiles off his feet in a tight hug, spinning him around in a circle. Stiles had to smack at Derek’s head with his diploma to get Derek to put him down, and he was definitely not crying when his feet touched the grass, no way.

They went out to dinner that night, all of them – the graduates and their families and pack, and they were joined by Lydia and her mom; a surprise wrangled by Stiles, who knew Scott had been bummed knowing they wouldn’t be able to see each other’s graduation ceremonies. Scott beamed the entire evening and bought Stiles a beer before catching Derek’s frown and taking it away again.

The party continued back at the house after the parents had disappeared off to their hotels. At that point, most of the house had been packed up, but Scott and Isaac had been careful to leave the wolfsbane-spiked booze out, and the werewolves and Lydia got increasingly drunk while Stiles pretended to sip at a beer to avoid any awkward questions about why he wasn’t drinking.

He pulled Derek upstairs when Derek started slurring his words and kept trying to climb into his lap to kiss him – trying to spare Derek some future mortification, Stiles sighed at Erica, who was probably the least drunk of everyone. She nodded wisely and then fell over the back of the couch, thereby proving that “least drunk” was a matter of perspective. Stiles shook his head and dragged Derek up to his room, where Derek pushed him down onto the bed for an aggressive make-out session, which Stiles thoroughly enjoyed. When Derek’s hands wandered lower, though, Stiles caught his wrists.

“Derek,” he said seriously. “Can’t, remember? Not if you want a bunch of out of control wolves in the house.”

Derek groaned into his neck. “Wanna.”

“I know,” Stiles placated. “I wanna too, but we have to wait.”

Derek huffed, rolling off him. “I hate babies.”

“No you don’t,” Stiles cajoled, poking him in the ribs.

“No,” Derek agreed with a slow grin. “I don’t.”

Stiles patted him on the arm. “As a reward for being so patient,” he said gallantly, scooting down the bed, “I’m gonna give you the best blowjob of your life.”

Later, Derek would rate it a 10/10 though, as Stiles pointed out, he was heavily biased in Stiles’ favor. Getting Derek off didn’t do much to abate Stiles’ own boner, but knowing there were only two days to wait until they could do it in the privacy of their own home was good enough. Their own home.

“Hey,” Stiles said wearily, curling himself back around Derek after a quick break to brush his teeth. “What’ve you got for furniture?”

“Not much,” Derek admitted after a long pause. He yawned, folding his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s pretty much just the bed.”

“Mm,” Stiles hummed. “’s really all we need, isn’t it?”

“If you want,” Derek murmured, pressing his face into Stiles’ neck. “I was thinking we could go shopping together.”

“Hey, no,” Stiles protested sleepily. “You just built the house. I think we’re expected to sit on milk crates and cardboard boxes for the next few years.”

“If you want,” Derek repeated, sounding a little mystified. “Can we buy a crib, at least? I’m not really fond of the thought of the baby sleeping in a cardboard box.”

“If we have to,” Stiles retorts, pretending to sigh. “Just think about how much money we’d save if we stuck it in a shoebox, though!”

“You’re going to be a terrible father,” Derek groaned.

Stiles laughed. “Good thing I have you to keep me on track, then.”

“Right,” Derek growled, rolling on top of him, pinning his arms to the mattress. Stiles blinked sleepily up at him, smiling widely. Derek’s serious face wavered after a moment and he pressed a kiss to the tip of Stiles’ nose repeating, much more gently, “Right.”

-

Moving out was pretty painless when there was a houseful of werewolves to do all the heavy lifting. Stiles found himself shunted to the side most of the time, which was fine with him; he busied himself with cleaning the rooms as they emptied because he was determined to get their security deposit back. With the truck loaded and ready to go, they all slept on the floor in the living room in a big mess of blankets. Everyone had returned to Beacon Hills after graduation, so it was just Derek and Stiles and Isaac and Scott and they had a good time laying around, recounting memories of living in the house.

"We should go camping," Stiles said after, bumping up against Derek. "Have a fire. Tents. Whatever."

"Yeah," Isaac said teasingly. "You better have fun before you have to tow a baby everywhere."

"Hey, man, it's easier than you think," Stiles yawned. "They've got those tight slings you can wear."

Scott started snorting into his pillow and they all looked over at him curiously. "Sorry," he said weakly. "I just got this mental picture of Derek bounding through the woods with a baby on his chest."

Derek didn't look very pleased when the rest of them fell about laughing and he shoved Stiles back into the blankets when Stiles tried to give him an apologetic peck on the cheek. 

"Seriously, though," Scott said, his brow furrowing. "Are you guys sure about this? I'm having a really hard time picturing you two as parents."

"Hey," Stiles said, mildly offended. "What are you saying about us, exactly?" He gestured at Derek. "Don't fuck with us; Derek will mess you up."

"Thanks," Derek said dryly, rolling his eyes. 

Stiles grinned, squeezing his hand. "I think we're ready, though," he said. "Right?"

Derek looked faintly surprised, then smiled, his hand tightening around Stiles’. “I think so.”

“Cut it out,” Isaac groaned, rolling onto his back. “I can smell you guys getting sappy.”

“Get used to it,” Stiles retorted.

“I am so glad you’re not going to be living with us anymore,” Isaac muttered, covering his face with his hands. Stiles kicked him.

-

The following day was exhausting. They woke early in the morning for the drive back to Beacon Hills, which was boring enough as it was – Stiles drove alone, as Derek had to drive the Camaro back, and Scott and Isaac were in the rental truck. Then, because of poor planning – or deliberate planning, perhaps; Stiles wasn’t sure – all of Stiles’ stuff had been packed at the front of the truck, which meant that he had to help unpack Scott and Isaac’s stuff at their new apartment before he could even get to his stuff.

“This is so unfair,” he groaned, carrying a dining chair up to their second floor apartment.

“What, because if we’d done it the other way around you wouldn’t have helped us?” Isaac grinned, sticking his tongue out at Stiles as he trotted past with the other three chairs. Stiles scowled after him. At least Boyd and Erica showed up halfway through, which cut their unpacking time in half.

Derek took Stiles over to the house early – ostensibly to eat lunch, but Stiles knew it was because Derek wanted to show him the new house before everyone else showed up.

“I do need to eat soon,” Stiles said as Derek led him up the front steps. “My hands are starting to shake.”

Derek gave him a fond, bemused expression. “I’ll catch you if you faint,” he said, swinging his keys in his hand. Stiles smiled and reached out for his other hand, holding his breath as Derek swung the door open.

The front door opened into a large living room, currently empty except for an armchair and the cactus Stiles had given Derek on their second date, Derek Jr. The ceilings were low but the windows were large, letting copious amounts of light in.

“Er,” Derek said awkwardly. “Are you going to go in?”

Stiles realized he was still standing in the doorway and stepped inside, pulling Derek along with him. “Der,” he breathed. “Der, we’ve got a house.”

“I’ve got a house,” Derek corrected, sounding bemused. “It’s my name on the deed.”

Stiles jabbed him in the stomach with his elbow. “Don’t spoil this.”

“Come on,” Derek retorted, putting his hands on Stiles’ waist and pushing him forward. “There’s more than just the living room.”

There was more – the downstairs contained the living room, a dining room, a massive kitchen, a small bathroom, and a space for an office – “Or a family room,” Derek breathed in his ear, and he looked embarrassed when Stiles kissed him on the cheek. The upstairs split into four bedrooms and a bathroom and Stiles stood still in the hallway for a while, contemplative. Derek stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, chin hooked over his shoulder, waiting patiently.

“Four, huh?” Stiles mused quietly.

“Well,” Derek said slowly, sounding suddenly uncertain. “I was hoping. They’d all be full. Someday. I mean – “

Stiles twisted around in his grip, looping his arms around Derek’s neck. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said softly. “Everybody’s got dreams. No one says they can’t come true.”

Derek’s breath came out shuddery and he buried his face against Stiles’ neck, fingers digging into Stiles’ waist. They stood still for a while, Stiles’ long fingers rubbing circles into the back of Derek’s neck. Derek straightened eventually, pressing his cheek against Stiles’ before taking his hand, tugging him toward the master bedroom. It was the only room that was really furnished – Derek’s bed filled most of the space, with his dresser pushed up against one wall.

“We can put your bed in here if you prefer it,” Derek said with a faint frown. “This was just temporary.”

“Nah,” Stiles said, looking around. “You’ve got a king and that’s a-okay with me. We can put mine in one of the other bedrooms.” He peered into the master bathroom and said, “Ooh, Jacuzzi tub! You’re spoiling us.”

Derek sniffed haughtily. “I figured I might as well go all out.”

Stiles was glad he did because for a long time, it seemed like Derek did everything in his power to make himself miserable, like he didn’t deserve happiness. Stiles was glad he’d come around – the relaxed, smiling Derek Hale in front of him was nothing like the drawn, anger-fueled Derek Hale he’d met in the woods sophomore year of high school. Stiles felt lucky to know him.

“Hey,” he said mischievously. “Think we have time to break in your bed?”

“It’s an old bed,” Derek frowned. “Besides, the others are coming up the road.”

Stiles pouted at him. “I’m going to start calling you Dracula,” he told Derek, who glowered at him.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a fun-sucker,” Stiles retorted, darting toward the door. Derek growled and chased after him, catching him around the waist at the top of the stairs and lifting him off his feet. Stiles laughed breathlessly, inhaling sharply when Derek bit the side of his neck.

“I’ll show you vampires,” Derek muttered.

“Put me down,” Stiles said petulantly, drumming his heels against Derek’s shins. “Before my body takes this compromising position the wrong way and I start reeking of arousal.”

“You always reek of arousal,” Derek snorted, but set Stiles gently on his feet as, outside the house, car doors slammed.

Stiles took a step toward the stairs right as Derek reached out and slapped him on the ass. “Oh,” Stiles hissed at him. “You’re gonna pay for that later.”

Derek smirked at him. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Retribution ended up the last thing on Stiles’ mind. When the house was finally empty that night, after hours of moving boxes and unpacking things – Stiles had most of the kitchen stuff, which was good because Derek only had two coffee mugs and a plate. Stiles crawled into bed while Derek disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. Stiles laid on his back and tried to read – a book about life in North Korea – but by the time Derek came out of the bathroom, steam curling around his shoulders, Stiles had read the same paragraph five times without realizing it. 

"Hey," Stiles said sleepily, watching Derek cross the room and root through his dresser for a pair of sweatpants. Derek glanced over his shoulder as he tugged them on, raising one eyebrow in question. "Thanks for inviting me to live here."

Derek smiled faintly, walking over to the bed and sinking down on the edge, settling himself between Stiles' legs with his chin on Stiles' stomach. "Wouldn't want anyone else here," he replied, his eyes soft. 

Stiles grinned, combing his fingers through Derek's hair. "Can you hear it yet?" he asked. "The heartbeat?"

Derek closed his eyes and tilted his head, pressing his ear to Stiles' stomach. "I - I think so," he said after a long moment, his voice hoarse. His hand came up to grip at Stiles' wrist, almost painfully tight. 

"I thought you might," Stiles said quietly. "I did some reading the other night. It said we'd be able to hear it on an ultrasound, so I figured you'd probably be able to." He pulled his wrist loose so he could take Derek's hand instead, squeezing tight. "Wish I could hear it," he added, his throat constricting. 

Derek cleared his throat and looked up at him, the emotion in his eyes so raw it almost made Stiles uncomfortable to look at. "We should probably go see Deaton," he said roughly. "We need to figure out if you need vitamins and check-ups or whatever."

"Look at you," Stiles said softly, stupid with fondness. "Told you you'd be a great dad." It wasn't really a surprise; Stiles knew Derek liked taking care of people. Even though he and Scott shared alpha duties, he was still the first one people called when there was a problem. Stiles knew for a fact that Derek brought Scott's mom dinner at the hospital sometimes, and he even knew about the sneaky visits to the dinner Derek and his dad went on every once in a while (Stiles had his informants at the station).

Derek made an embarrassed noise, turning his face back against Stiles' hip. Stiles squeezed his hand once more before letting go and turning his attention back to his book. Derek lay heavy and warm on top of him, rubbing his cheek against Stiles' stomach in a smooth, repetitive motion. 

"You gonna fall asleep down there?" Stiles murmured. 

Derek made a low noise of assent, shifting down to brush his nose against Stiles' thigh. "You smell so good," he rumbled. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Stiles hooked a leg over his shoulder, watching over the top of his book as Derek rubbed his cheek against Stiles’ thigh, brushed his open mouth over Stiles’ underwear.

“Hey,” Stiles muttered as Derek curled his fingers in the waistband of Stiles’ underwear. “I’m supposed to be paying you back.”

“You are,” Derek half-groaned, tugging Stiles’ underwear down his hips. “The way you smell – it’s like torture.”

“Hmm,” Stiles hummed, his heel digging in against Derek’s back as Derek breathed hot against his skin.

He had to set his book down eventually, slide his hands into Derek’s hair and hold on, hips bucking into Derek’s mouth. Derek didn’t seem to mind when Stiles came without warning, swallowing him down – he never did; he said he liked the taste of Stiles – but tonight he spent an inordinate amount of time between Stiles’ legs afterward, nuzzling sleepily at Stiles’ crotch. Stiles, who’d gone heavy and loose-limbed after coming, nudged at him.

“You gonna stay down there all night?”

Derek nipped at his skin and slowly pulled himself off the end of the bed, disappearing back into the bathroom, where Stiles could hear him brushing his teeth. Stiles yawned and gave up on his book, setting it on the nightstand and shutting off the light. By the time Derek came back to bed, settling heavily down beside him and looping an arm over his stomach, Stiles was half asleep, drifting in that blessed state between slumber and awareness.

“Know what was great about that?” Stiles murmured. Derek hummed and pulled him closer. “Didn’t even have to close the door, and there isn’t going to be anyone muttering about us being loud over breakfast.”

“I can complain, if you want,” Derek muttered, kissing the back of Stiles’ neck. “For old times’ sake.”

Stiles smiled sleepily, patting his arm. “Knew I could count on you.”

-

Stiles showed up at his dad’s house at six the following evening. It felt a little strange; the house would always be full of memories, the place he grew up, but it wasn’t home now – unless something went terribly wrong, it’d never be the place he lived in again. Still, walking in to find his dad stretched out on the couch, half asleep as he watched a Dodgers game, was comfortingly familiar.

“C’mon, old man,” Stiles teased. “It’s not even dark out yet and you’re asleep on me.”

“Show some respect for your elders,” his dad replied, sitting up with a grunt.

Stiles laughed. “When have I ever done that?”

“Point,” his dad said grudgingly. “Where’s Derek?”

“Working,” Stiles shrugged, heading into the kitchen. He’d been picking up shifts as an orderly at the hospital, as well as doing some work for the contractor that had built the house. Derek didn’t need to work – Stiles knew he had a significant fortune from both the insurance from the fire and his own family’s wealth – but he got bored with nothing to do, and there was the helping people thing he liked so much.

“Huh,” the sheriff said, following him. They made dinner together in silence and Stiles frowned as he washed vegetables for a salad. He’d lived with his father for nearly twenty-three years, and Stiles knew when there was something weighing on his mind. Stiles kept his mouth shut, though; he’d wait and see if his dad brought whatever it was up first before he said anything.

It was a nice night so they sat out on the back porch with their hamburgers – Stiles’ concession – and salad – his dad’s concession – and a couple of beers, watching the sun starting to set over the woods.

“Well,” his dad said, raising his beer. “Congratulations on the degree, son.”

Stiles grinned into his hamburger. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Dad.”

“Wasn’t sure we’d make it here,” his father sniffed. “All that trouble getting your ADHD figured out, and then this supernatural crap on top of it.” He sighed. “I wish – well.”

Stiles looked over at him sharply, ninety percent sure he’d been about to say something about Stiles’ mom, because he had the look on his face he always got when he was thinking about her. His father didn’t continue, though, taking a long sip of his beer, his face tired in the red light of the sunset.

It wasn’t until later that Stiles’ dad asked him about the house. They hadn’t really talked about Stiles’ plans for life after graduation; Stiles had told him about his plan to move in with Derek a couple of weeks after Derek had asked him, and his dad had sounded a little sad. Stiles felt bad about it; as great as it was to be living with Derek, he didn’t like that his dad was all alone.

“You’re all moved in, then?” his father asked as they stood at the sink. He rinsed off a dish and passed it to Stiles, who said, “Yep. Well, there’s a lot of unpacking to do, but everything’s in the house, at least.”

“Hm,” his father said, and there was that note in his tone, the one that told Stiles he had something on his mind.

Stiles set down the dishcloth and asked, “What?”

His dad frowned down at the soapy water in the sink. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Moving in with Derek?” Stiles asked, frowning. “Why? I thought you liked him.” His father didn’t say anything and Stiles’ frown deepened. “What’s going on?”

The sheriff sighed. “Look,” he said gently. “It might not mean anything, but – well, you know Jill Summers, right?” Stiles nodded; she was one of the deputies down at the station. “She and her husband are expecting a baby and she told me she saw Derek looking at cribs at Babies R Us the other week.”

For a moment, Stiles could only stare at his father before he had to turn in order to hide the grin on his face. Derek was such a fucking sneak; Stiles couldn’t wait to spring this on him.

Behind him, though, his father continued, “Like I said, it might not mean anything, but if he’s been cheating on you and he got the girl pregnant – “

“Oh my God,” Stiles exclaimed, spinning back around. “Derek hasn’t been cheating on me!”

His father frowned at him. “Well – ”

Stiles bit his lip hard. This wasn’t the way he wanted to do this, but he couldn’t think of anything else. “We’re having a baby.”

His father’s frown deepened. “Stiles – “

“By ‘we,’” Stiles continued, talking over him, “I mean me, Dad.”

“You – “ His father’s eyes dropped to his stomach, then back up to his face. “What?”

Stiles took a deep breath before explaining as best he could, skimming over most of the how because his dad didn’t need to know any more about Stiles’ and Derek’s sex life than he already did. When he finished, Stiles shut his mouth, waiting anxiously for a reaction. It didn’t take long.

“This is not happening,” his father said, abandoning the dishes to fold his arms over his chest.

“It kind of is,” Stiles said nervously.

“No,” his dad said shortly, starting to look angry. “You’re not having a baby, Stiles. You just graduated from college! I’m not going to let you throw your life away!”

“I’m not throwing anything away!” Stiles retorted, his own temper rising. “I’ve given this a lot of thought!”

“Oh, you’ve thought this over, have you?” his father snapped. “A couple weeks’ thinking about a decision that’s going to affect the rest of your life?”

“You’re being such a hypocrite right now, you know that?” Stiles hissed. “Mom had me when she was nineteen! Are you telling me you think she threw her life away?”

“Of course not!” the sheriff said furiously. Just like that, though, his anger faded as quickly as it had arisen. He looked tired suddenly, much older than he actually was. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped – that you’re doing this because you want to.”

“I am, Dad,” Stiles told him, softening. “I want this, and Derek wants this and – that’s all I care about.”

His father sighed but spread his arms and Stiles stepped into his embrace without hesitation. “Never thought this would be something I’d have to deal with,” his dad muttered. “You getting someone pregnant, maybe, but you…” He heaved a heavy sigh.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t exactly on my horizon, either,” Stiles snorted, clapping him on the back.

His dad took a step back, giving him a long look. “You’re sure about this?”

Stiles nodded, grinning faintly. “You’re gonna be a grandpa, Dad.”

His father sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to that thought,” he admitted.

“Well, look,” Stiles told him. “You’ve got my permission to go all hard-ass dad on Derek, if you want. He could use some shaking up.”

The sheriff brightened slightly. “Oh?”

It worried Stiles a little, how that seemed to cheer his dad up so easily, but it broke the tension a bit. His father had a lot of questions after that about the logistics of being pregnant, and Stiles couldn’t tell him much – not until they went and spoke with Deaton. He could see it was difficult for his dad to wrap his head around everything which, hell, he completely understood.

Stiles was half asleep when Derek came home from work that night. He stirred when the bed dipped behind him, humming contentedly as Derek curled around him. "Hey," Stiles said sleepily. "You smell like disinfectant."

"You smell worried," Derek replied quietly. "Is everything okay?"

Stiles hesitated a moment before saying, "My dad knows."

He felt Derek go tense. "About the baby."

"Yeah."

"...and?" Derek prodded after a moment, when Stiles didn't expand.

Stiles sighed. "He wasn't thrilled, but I think he'll come around. Eventually."

Derek exhaled. "Does he want to kill me?"

"Maybe," Stiles said lightly. "The next time you take him out for breakfast at the diner, I'd let him order as much bacon as he wants."

Derek shifted around behind him. "You know about that?" he asked, sounding guilty.

"Mmhmm," Stiles replied, grinning into his pillow. "And I know you were looking at cribs. One of Dad's deputies saw you. Couldn't wait for me, huh?"

"I didn't buy one," Derek said, sounding aggrieved. "I just wanted to do some research."

"I don't mind, you big goof," Stiles said fondly. 

"If you don't have any plans tomorrow, we could go together," Derek offered, almost shyly. 

"Sounds good to me," Stiles agreed, curling his hand around Derek's wrist. “We should stop by Deaton's too."

"It's a date," Derek said, propping himself up and leaning forward to kiss Stiles' cheek. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Good," Stiles said, waving him off sleepily. "I only want our bed to smell like us." 

Derek didn't say anything, but the way his hand squeezed Stiles' hip as he rose from the bed told Stiles he agreed. 

-

"You need to be careful."

Stiles blinked at Deaton. "Huh?" He was sitting on the examination table, the cold of the metal seeping through his pants, while Derek stood next to him, his arms folded across his chest. Deaton sat on a stool in front of them, paused in the midst of laying out the ultrasound equipment. 

"I've been doing some research," Deaton told them. "As I told you before, the birth of a gamma is fairly rare - there's probably fewer than two dozen in the country. Their rarity, combined with the lore surrounding them, makes them something of...a collector's item."

"What do you mean?" Stiles and Derek demanded in sync. Derek took a step closer to Stiles, his hip pressing up against Stiles' thigh.

Stiles reached out, anchoring himself with a hand on Derek's back as Deaton said, "Due to the physically impossible nature of conception, people seem to believe that the blood of the gamma will increase the chance of conception in barren women. They're highly sought after on the black market. There's a couple of hunter families that specialize in finding and capturing gammas."

Derek made a furious noise low in his throat and Stiles' body tightened in response, his fingers clutching at the back of Derek's jacket. "So Stiles is going to be in constant danger?" Derek snapped. 

"That's why I said you need to be careful," Deaton said patiently. "You should be fine as long as you're very careful about who you tell. The danger won't come from just hunters, Derek, but werewolves outside the pack as well. From what I understand, gammas that are born wolves are usually stronger and more powerful than betas. They're born with inherent alpha qualities that make them a powerful asset to any pack and there have been instances in the past of packs being wiped out in order to steal their gamma."

Derek growled again and Stiles shuddered. Derek looked down at him, a fierce expression on his face. "That is not going to happen," he said shortly. "We'll cut off contact with the other packs if we have to."

"You can't do that!" Stiles argued. "It's taken you like five years to build your network!"

"They don't matter," Derek said, his hand curling over Stiles' thigh. To Deaton, he said, "What about Scott? He tried to attack Stiles last week."

Deaton looked thoughtful. "An interesting problem," he remarked. "The baby will change this pack. Wolves that are related by blood have a much stronger connection to each other than other pack members - even pack members turned by the alpha - and the relationship between the alpha and their children is especially strong, as you know."

Derek nodded and Deaton continued, "The difficulty here is twofold; you and Scott have been managing fairly well coexisting as alphas, but it's contrary to typical pack structure and and the only reason it hasn't been much of a problem until now is because there haven't been many disturbances in town - therefore, there's been little reason for you two to struggle to lead. However, the baby is going to give Derek a distinct advantage; a direct heir and possible successor. Scott's wolf is going to see that as a threat."

"But Scott doesn't care about being in control," Stiles protested. "How - "

Deaton shook his head. "The human part of Scott may not, but there are deeper instincts that he has to fight again, and that's the other issue, Stiles. You. Your body's changing; you're producing hormones that are going to affect the entire pack. Scott can't help the way he's reacting to you - it's purely chemical."

Stiles frowned, his heart sinking. "So what can we do? I can't just avoid Scott for the rest of my life! He's my best friend!"

Deaton raised a hand. "Patience," he said calmly. "The good thing about this is your strong friendship; it may take him a few weeks to adjust, but his human's side's feelings for you will override the wolf's concern of a threat. You should hang around each other as much as possible to hurry the process along."

Derek groaned quietly but Stiles pumped his fist in the air. "Yes!" He jabbed his elbow into Derek's ribs, grinning. "You hear that? Doctor's orders!" 

"Fine," Derek grumbled.

Deaton smiled and held up the ultrasound wand. "Are you ready?"

Stiles nodded and pulled off his shirt, smiling faintly when Derek took his hand. He squeezed Derek's fingers and asked, as Deaton touched the wand to his stomach, "What would you do if we had twins?"

Derek snorted, his eyes on the screen. "Two more of you running around? I don't think I could handle that."

"As long as you don't leave me," Stiles said. The words came out light, almost joking, but his heart clenched at the thought, a wave of worry washing over him.

Derek looked down at him sharply. "No," he said bluntly, his hand tightening around Stiles'. Stiles nodded, the knot in his chest loosening. 

"Here we are," Deaton said, and Stiles and Derek both looked over at the screen. 

Stiles squinted, uncertain he was looking at the right thing. "That's our blob?" Derek made a faintly outraged noise and the side of Stiles' mouth quirked up. 

"That's broadly correct," Deaton said patiently.

"Look at that, babe," Stiles grinned. "We're having an amorphous blob." 

Derek sighed. "Can't you take this seriously?"

"When have I ever done that?" Stiles retorted. "Can you find the heartbeat, doc?"

"Just a moment," Deaton replied, moving the wand over Stiles' stomach. "Ah."

Everyone stilled as the sound of a fast but identifiable heartbeat filled the room. "Oh," Stiles said very quietly. Derek pressed his hip closer to Stiles' leg, squeezing Stiles' hand tight. "So this is what you can hear, huh?" Stiles asked, his throat tight. Derek nodded silently, the muscles in his jaw working. "Oh." 

Deaton pulled the wand away and turned his back to them, putting his equipment away. Stiles blinked furiously as he pulled his shirt back on, hand automatically seeking out Derek's when he was done. 

"All right," Deaton said, turning back around. "Stiles, you're welcome to keep coming back here for ultrasounds, but I need to remind you that I treat animals, not humans. I know very little about prenatal care."

Stiles made a face. "What do you suggest, then? It's not like I can waltz into an OB-GYN's office."

"I know some people who might be able to help, but due to the danger that their knowledge of your pregnancy might cause, I suggest we keep them in mind as a last resort," Deaton told him. "I couldn't find much information on the actual medical side of a gamma pregnancy, but I'm going make the assumption that it progress much like a normal pregnancy would in a woman."

"Okay," Stiles said slowly. "That's not much help, though."

Denton smiled in that faintly superior way that used to piss them all off so badly in high school. "Luckily for you," he said, "you do know someone with medical expertise who knows of the supernatural and also happens to be a mother."

"Who?" Stiles asked blankly, but Derek straightened and said, "Melissa." 

"What?!" Stiles squawked. "Aw, no, we can't tell her!"

Derek frowned down at him. "Why not?"

Stiles gestured wildly. "Because she's like my second mom, dude! I don't want her all up in my junk!"

Derek rolled his eyes. "She's seen worse, I can promise you that."

"That's not the same!" Stiles protested, hopping off the table. "Besides, when she finds out I'm having a baby, she's gonna go all judgey on me, just like my dad did!"

"So you're going to avoid making sure our baby stays healthy just to avoid judgmental looks from Scott's mom," Derek said dryly. "Sounds like a solid plan."

Stiles glowered at him. "You're the worst kind of reasonable, you know that?"

Derek smirked at him. They waved at Deaton and left the clinic, but as they reached the car, Derek caught Stiles by the arm, his face going serious. "I need you to know," he said. "I wouldn't leave you. There's no way in hell."

"I know," Stiles said. "I just worry about things too much sometimes."

"I wouldn't," Derek insisted, his expression intense and unwavering. "I swear to you - even if we broke up for some stupid reason, I wouldn't leave you to raise our kid alone. I swear."

"I know," Stiles repeated, and he was completely prepared to blame the waver in his voice and the burning in his eyes on the stupid hormones. He lifted his arms when Derek stepped forward, leaning his whole body into Stiles' embrace. He closed his eyes, breathing in the solid, warm scent of Derek: heavy leather and petrichor. "I know, puppy," he mumbled into Derek's neck, and Derek exhaled harshly, his breath hot against Stiles' skin.

They pulled apart after a long moment, though Stiles remained slumped against the side of the Camaro, watching Derek carefully. Derek's eyes were suspiciously dark, but his voice was even when he asked, "You ready to go shopping?”

"Hell yeah!" Stiles said enthusiastically. "Let's go buy some shit!"

-

They drove down to Redding because if they were going to buy baby stuff, he didn't want to run the chance of someone they knew seeing them and having to field a ton of awkward questions. There were more stores down in Redding anyway; Stiles had wanted to go back to Sacramento and go to IKEA, but Derek had growled, "I'm sick of driving down there," so Redding was their compromise. 

They didn't talk much on the drive down; Derek got worn out after making emotional declarations like he had outside the clinic and Stiles was still processing the information Deaton had shared with them. It was a lot to take in, honestly, and the fact that being pregnant was putting him in danger was worrying, to say the least. Derek, like he knew what Stiles was thinking, didn't say a word, but reached over and took his hand. Stiles sighed softly, forcing himself to think about happier things, and asked, "Boy or girl?"

Derek glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you asking me what I think it is or what I want it to be?"

"Either," Stiles shrugged, ambivalent. "Both."

"I don't care what it is," Derek replied, his eyes turning back to the road. "But I think it's a girl."

"Really?" Stiles asked curiously. "Why?"

Derek shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "I grew up with sisters," he said. "It just feels like it."

"Hmm," Stiles said thoughtfully, patting his stomach. He thought about a little girl - one with Derek's dark hair and his nose, maybe - and his heart gave a funny little flutter that made Derek look over at him sharply. "I'm fine," Stiles said quickly. "Just getting a little sentimental over here."

"Uh huh," Derek said, looking a little unconvinced.

Stiles gave his hand a squeeze and said, "Hey, speaking of sisters, what are we gonna tell Cora?"

"We're going to tell her you're pregnant," Derek replied evenly.

"Yeah, but when?" Stiles asked insistently. "Do you think we can get away with not saying anything until, say, our kid goes off to college? You know she's going to laugh her ass off."

"...I think we can put it off for a few more weeks, at least," Derek said after a moment's reflection and Stiles snorted.

They had a good time in Redding; they went to a furniture store and ordered furniture for just about the entire house. Stiles got annoyed when Derek wouldn't let him help pay for anything; Derek graciously allowed him to buy a single end table and Stiles got revenge by buying the most garish one he could find.

("You do know we're going to have to look at that every single day, right?" Derek asked as they left the store.

"...shut up," said Stiles.)

They ate a late lunch at a pizza place and headed over to a store that sold baby supplies. Stiles slowed as they approached the doors, suddenly feeling uncertain. 

"You all right?" Derek asked.

Stiles exhaled noisily, his hand finding Derek's as they walked through the doors. "I'm fine," he said, turning his head from side to side to take in all the pastel colors. He wasn't really though; he felt like a fish out of water in here - he didn't even know what they were really there for. Why hadn't they made a fucking list so they could duck in and duck out in a matter of minutes? He didn't want to be here.

"You're freaking out," Derek said, pulling him to a halt in the middle of a row of baby cribs. 

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, staring down at his shoes so he didn't have to look at the store or Derek's face. He tried to breathe deeply but it came out shallow, whistling between his teeth. 

Derek stepped close to him, pressing against his side. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't - I don't know," Stiles said hoarsely. "I just - this is too much. Having the baby is one thing, but knowing that someone out there might murder all of us to get it - I can't just stand here and shop for a crib and pretend like it's normal, because it's not, Der, it's fucked up!" 

Derek was quiet for a long time before he said, "We don't have to do this. You don't have to do this." It sounded like it hurt him to say it and Stiles winced, hunching his shoulders unhappily.

"I'm not saying that," he said plaintively. "I just can't do this today."

"Okay," Derek agreed quietly. "We can go home."

"Sorry," Stiles muttered.

Derek leaned in to press a kiss to his temple. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

-

Later that night, Derek curled around Stiles, one of his hands spread flat across Stiles' stomach, and Stiles closed his eyes and tried to explain why he'd freaked out earlier. 

"I just haven't really been thinking about it, I guess," he said quietly. It was easier to talk in the dark, with Derek's warmth pressed up against his back, his hand slowly moving back and forth over Stiles' stomach. "It's not like I feel or look any different yet. Seeing it this morning, though, and hearing the heartbeat - it kind of hit me that it was real, you know? And then to immediately find out that our kid's a black market commodity..."

"It's a lot," Derek offered softly. 

"Yeah," Stiles agreed with a sigh. 

Derek shifted impossibly closer, pressing his nose to the back of Stiles' neck. "You don't have to do this," he said, repeating his words from earlier. 

"I am not trying to get out of this!" Stiles exclaimed. He wrenched himself out of Derek's grasp, flipping over so they were face to face. He could only make out the shape of Derek's face in the dim light of the room, but it looked unhappy. "I want this kid, all right? I'm just worried that someone - or all of us - are going to end up dead!" 

"That's not going to happen," Derek told him firmly. "The only people we're going to tell are the pack and your dad."

"And Deaton," Stiles said unhappily. "And Melissa?"

"We probably should," Derek said, sounding a little guilty. 

"Okay," Stiles said, "but what about when I swell up like a balloon a couple months from now? What am I supposed to do then?"

"I don't know," Derek said patiently. "We'll figure something out when we get there."

Stiles sighed, dropping himself back down onto the bed. Derek's arm came back to curl around him and he scooted himself close to Derek, winding his limbs around him like an octopus. "I love you," Stiles mumbled, pressing his forehead against Derek's collarbone. "I don't want you to get killed."

"Not gonna happen," Derek murmured, his hand sliding up Stiles' spine to cup the back of his head. "Told you. I'm never gonna leave you."

"Promise?" Stiles whispered into the hollow of Derek's throat. Derek's grip on him tightened.

"I promise."

-

Stiles spent the next week hanging around the house, unpacking boxes and - when it was delivered a couple days after their trip down to Redding - shoving the new furniture into place. The house was starting to look like a home and he was pleased with it, but he was bored, too. Derek was constantly in and out; in addition to his occasional job at the hospital, he'd started doing work for the contractor who'd built the house [DID I MENTION THIS BEFORE? CHECK]. His schedule was ever-changing; he'd come home in scrubs smelling of disinfectant, change into old jeans and a worn t-shirt, and come home six hours later with paint splattered across his cheekbones. 

Scott came over whenever he could; he was working part-time at Deaton's, part-time at a nearby Department of Fish & Wildlife research and rehabilitation station. Stiles had told him what Deaton had said about the baby and since neither of them was at all willing to let their friendship disappear, Stiles decided they needed to approach the problem much like they had in high school when Scott had first been turned and couldn't find his anchor. 

"We gotta do this head on," he said determinedly, and Scott grinned. After a moment's reflection, Stiles added, "We probably shouldn't tell Derek about this, though. He'd probably be pissed if he knew I was deliberately riling you up."

"I'll call Isaac," Scott nodded. 

While they waited for Isaac to show up, the two of them sat on the front steps of the house. It was a warm day, still early enough in the morning that the sun felt good - not too hot. Stiles closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth like a cat, and asked, "What do you think your mom's going to say when we tell her?"

Scott gave the sky a thoughtful look. "She'll probably just smack you," he said after a moment's consideration. "Then she might cry."

"Oh. Good." Stiles sighed. 

Scott looked over at him. "You said you heard its heartbeat?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, his throat tightening. He rubbed an absent hand across his stomach. "Derek can hear it, you know - if he leans in close."

"Can I?" Scott asked without hesitation.

Stiles paused. "Will you be okay if you do?" he asked. "That close to me?"

"I'll hold my breath," Scott promised, looking earnest. "Can I?"

"Let's try it," Stiles shrugged. Isaac was on his way; if Scott flipped out, Stiles could hold his own for a while. Scott grinned and leaned in, pressing his ear to Stiles' stomach. It was a little weird, but certainly far from the weirdest thing they'd ever done together. Scott pulled back abruptly, exhaling sharply. Stiles narrowed his eyes, his body tensing at the way Scott held his own body still. He didn't say anything this time - just breathed slow and evenly, trying to keep his heart steady in the hopes that if Scott was on the verge of a freakout, it might calm him. 

"I'm good," Scott said after a moment. He lifted his head and grinned at Stiles. His eyes shone red but the color bled away as Stiles looked, fading to Scott's normal dark brown. "I did it!"

Stiles grinned lopsidedly. "Dude, you got right up in my business! Maybe we don't need Isaac after all."

Scott smiled brightly. "I think I should keep practicing," he said, "but I heard it, man! I heard the baby!"

"It's weird, isn't it?" Stiles said, making a face. "Me having a baby?"

"Well, it's not normal," Scott said with a shrug. "I don't know about weird, though. We've seen a lot worse, haven't we?"

"Yeah, but this - " Stiles sucked in a steadying breath. "Kind of uncharted waters, huh? And it's - it's permanent, you know? Not like most of the stuff we usually deal with."

Concern flashed over Scott's face. "Are you okay, dude?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, looking up at the sky. "It's just - big. I don't know what I'm doing." He needed books, he needed to research, he needed - he needed fucking vitamins, probably, fuck. He was more than two months in and he didn't even know if he was supposed to be taking fucking vitamins. 

"You sure you're okay?" Scott pressed, looking worried. 

"I'm fine," Stiles assured him quickly. "Hey, there's Isaac, look."

They spent the rest of the morning working on Scott's control. In his normal foolhardy way, Stiles threw himself at the problem headlong; he decided that the best way to test Scott was to replicate the conditions of his previous freakout, so despite Scott and Isaac's disgust, Stiles went inside and jerked off, cleaning himself off sloppily before heading back outside. The first couple of times he went too close to Scott he ended up halfway up a tree while Isaac restrained Scott from coming up after him, but by mid-afternoon they could lounge on the steps together and the only sign Scott was struggling was his eyes burning red. 

"You got this, though," Stiles told him, his body flooding with relief; he hadn't been sure what he'd do if Scott had been unable to control himself. The knowledge that he'd still be able to hang around his best friend was an absolute comfort. 

Before they headed out, Scott paused and said, "Hey, if you get bored hanging around the house, the research station's offering internships for the summer. I think there's one dealing with the research data, if you're into that. They're pretty flexible with availability, you know, so if you have any issues..." He gestured at Stiles' stomach.

"Dude," Stiles said with a grin. "Thanks."

"Of course," Scott replied. "Hey, we'll see you later, okay? Graduation party's on Saturday!"

Stiles was laying on the couch when Derek came home from the hospital, his laptop on his stomach. He had the top five pregnancy books in his Amazon cart and was nervously browsing prenatal vitamins when Derek came through the front door looking tired. 

"Hey," Stiles greeted with a wave. "How was work?"

"Slow," Derek replied, bending to give him a kiss. He paused, though, a frown crossing his face. "Why do you smell like Scott and sex?"

"Scott came over," Stiles yawned absently, reaching for him. "Lemme kiss you, c'mere."

But Derek straightened, still frowning. "I'm going to take a shower," he said shortly. 

Stiles propped himself up on one elbow, staring after him. "Der, are you mad?" he called. "Der!" 

Derek didn't answer him; Stiles listened to his footsteps go upstairs and into their room. A moment later, the water turned on in their bathroom. Stiles heaved a sigh, setting his laptop aside so he could figure out what the problem was. Derek was already in the shower by the time Stiles reached the bathroom, his clothes in a pile on the floor next to the sink. 

"Derek," Stiles said patiently, addressing the shower curtain. "You're mad. Tell me why."

The shower curtain didn't reply. Stiles sighed. "Babe, all Scott did was listen to the baby's heartbeat. I jerked off later. Alone." He didn't mention that Scott had chased him up trees all afternoon because of it, but what Derek didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "I wouldn't do something like that to you."

"I know that," Derek said moodily. "It's just - " He sighed heavily. "Scent's important, Stiles, especially right now. It fucked with my head. I'm sorry."

Stiles didn't say anything. He did, however, slip out of his clothes, leaving them on the floor next to Derek's. Derek turned when Stiles stepped into the shower, a faint frown on his face. "What are you doing?"

"Getting clean," Stiles replied simply. "Wiping the slate clean, as it were."

Derek's face softened. "I didn't mean to get angry," he said. 

"I know," Stiles said lightly, lathering up with soap. "I imagine if my scent makes Scott want to kill me, it does the opposite to you." He looked up to see Derek flushing. "What? Oh, god, what?"

"It's - it's making me so fucking horny," Derek choked, going pink to the tips of his ears. 

Stiles stared at him. "Derek," he said admonishingly. "Why the hell haven't you been doing anything about it?"

Derek blinked. "You - "

"You know I'm always down for banging," Stiles said impatiently. "What have you been waiting for? I thought you've been worn out from work - I've been jerking off like three times a day!"

Derek took half a step forward. "Is right now - "

Stiles grinned, gesturing expansively. "We're already naked, aren't we?"

Derek surged forward, crowding Stiles up against the stall wall, scooping his hands under Stiles' thighs to lift him right off his feet. Stiles laughed breathlessly, folding his arms around Derek's shoulders. "I want you all the time," he whispered into Derek's hair. Derek groaned into the crook of Stiles' neck, his fingers digging into Stiles' thighs so hard Stiles knew there would be bruises there later. "Come on," he added impatiently. "Show me what you've been holding back."

-

"I think I'm going to apply for an internship," Stiles said later, wearing only his boxers as he sat on the kitchen counter and watched Derek move around, making dinner. "Scott said the research station he's working at is offering one."

"Yeah?" Derek asked, glancing over at him. "The baby's not going to be a problem?"

"That's kind of the reason I want to do this," Stiles replied. "It's only going to last a few months, so I'll be done before the baby comes."

"Sounds good," Derek said evenly, shooting Stiles a faint smile. "I take it you're getting bored?"

"Just a little," Stiles admitted. "I'm gonna go crazy if I spend the next six months sitting around."

"Can't have that," Derek agreed solemnly. He dumped noodles into a pot of boiling water and stepped into the space between Stiles' legs, sliding his arms around Stiles' waist.

"Hey," Stiles said quietly, dropping his head to Derek's shoulder. "Round two?"

Derek snorted softly, stroking a hand up Stiles' spine. "After dinner," he said.

"Fine," Stiles hummed agreeably. "Look at us: having a baby, living in our own house, prioritizing food over sex. So adult."

Derek snorted again, straightening as the pasta threatened to boil over. "Does that make us boring?"

It was Stiles' turn to snort in derision. "You're a werewolf and I'm a dude having your baby. I don't think we could be boring if we tried." He smiled at Derek, his eyes going soft and fond. "This is just a new chapter, right?"

Derek looked over at him as he pulled the pot off the burner, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. "Right."

-

Saturday morning found them at the grocery store, filling a cart full of food for the graduation party later that day. 

"I don't see why Dad isn't doing this," Stiles grumbled, grabbing a couple of bags of mixed greens for salad.

"He's paying," Derek replied mildly, looking down at a long list. "Grab some spinach too."

"Don't even pretend like you're going to eat any of this," Stiles muttered. "I know you, bud. You're gonna eat five hotdogs and pretend not to hear me when I ask if you want any salad." He chucked a bag of spinach in the cart and narrowed his eyes at Derek, who was staring across the produce section. "See? You're already ignoring me!"

Derek cast him an irritated look. "I am not," he said. "Look."

Stiles followed his gaze and grinned when his eyes landed on a dark-haired girl examining apples. "Oh, hey! Allison!"

Her head came up, turning to see who'd called for her, a smile splitting her face when she spotted the two of them. "Hi!" Allison said, making her way over to them. "How are you guys?"

"Pretty good," Stiles said with secretive grin at Derek, accepting Allison's hug. "What about you? I thought you weren't coming back for another month."

"I finished up early," smiled Allison, who'd been studying conflict resolution in France. "What are you guys up to?"

"Oh, we're hosting a graduation party tonight!" Stiles said cheerfully. "You and your dad should come over if you don't have any plans."

"Sounds good to me," Allison said. "Are you all moved into the house now?"

"Yeah, and we finally got furniture this week - right in time for everyone to spill their food on it, huh?" Stiles nudged Derek, who snorted.

"It's not them I'm worried about," Derek said, poker-faced. Stiles sputtered in indignation while Allison laughed. 

"Asshat," Stiles hissed. 

Derek laughed, throwing an arm around Stiles' shoulder, tugging him tight to his side. "We'd better get moving," he said, "or we'll be here all day."

Allison waved them off so they could finish up their grocery shopping. It wasn't until they were loading bags into the back of the Jeep that Stiles said thoughtfully, "Do you think we should tell them all tonight?"

Derek frowned at him. "The pack? About the baby?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, leaning against the side of the Jeep, watching Derek heft 12-packs of soda into the back. "I know it's a little early, but Erica and Boyd are getting married next month and Erica will kill us if we steal her thunder. And if we wait until after the wedding, it's going to be almost four months at that point, and everyone will be pissed we didn't say anything earlier."

"Fair point," Derek agreed, slamming the back door. "Are we going to talk to Melissa too?"

"It's probably for the best," Stiles nodded, heading for the driver's seat. He paused, waiting for Derek to get in before adding, "And then that's it, right? No one else to tell?"

Derek grimaced. "Cora."

"Crap," Stiles sighed. "She's coming back next month for the wedding. Maybe we can wait until then?"

"She'd kill us for telling everyone else first," Derek replied. "I'd rather tell her over Skype anyway; I can just turn off the computer if she gets too annoying."

Cora had been living in South America ever since her reappearance their junior year of high school. She and Derek skyped every few weeks, but they weren't all that close; Derek had told him once that she didn't really feel like family any more, that sometimes he still wasn't sure she was even real. Stiles didn't know what to tell him.

-

Stiles' dad came over early and Stiles watched the nervous way Derek gave him a tour of the new house. No one said anything about the baby, but when Derek and his dad went outside to start grilling up chicken and hamburgers, they were gone for a long time. Derek came back in alone, looking contemplative, and Stiles grinned at him. 

"Dad give you the ‘I've got a lot of guns so don't hurt my son if you know what I'm saying wink wink’ talk?" Stiles asked.

Derek glowered at him. "No," he said. "He just told me a lot of embarrassing stories about you as a kid. As a heads up for what I've gotten myself into, he said."

"Traitor," Stiles hissed. Derek smirked at him and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth.

Scott and Isaac showed up first, followed soon after by Melissa, her arms laden with baked good. Derek nudged Stiles when she came in and he nodded, waiting for her to set her things down before he said, "Hey, Melissa? Can Derek and I talk to you?"

She swung around to look at him, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. "Oh my god," she said. "You're getting married."

"What?" Stiles blinked. "No, that's not - "

"We're having a baby," Derek said, looping an arm around Stiles' waist.

Melissa frowned. "You're adopting."

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head. "I'm having a baby."

Melissa looked at him, then at Derek, then at Stiles' stomach. "Where is it coming out of?" she whispered.

"Uh," said Stiles. "That is, uh, an excellent question that I've been trying not to think about."

Melissa gave him a pitying look. "What have you boys gotten yourselves into?"

Stiles sighed. Derek's arm around him tightened as he said, "We need your help. Deaton knows about this, but he's not..."

"An expert in humans," Stiles supplied. 

"I'm not a doctor," Melissa said, "and I working in the ER, not obstetrics!"

"We just need a little guidance!" Stiles hissed. "I mean, people have been giving birth for thousands of years - how hard can it be?"

"Women, Stiles," Melissa retorted, rolling her eyes. "Women have been giving birth for thousands of years." She chewed on her bottom lip, eyeing them. "What exactly do you need?"

Stiles heaved a sigh of relief. Derek's grip on him loosened slightly. "Like I said," he said, gesturing expansively. "Advice. I mean, I'm almost three months along and I don't even know if I should be taking vitamins! Stuff like that."

"Okay, okay." Melissa rubbed a hand over her eyes. "I'll put together some info for you." She hesitated, then asked, "Does your dad know?"

"Yeah," Stiles grinned. "He put the fear of God into Derek earlier."

"He did not," Derek said moodily. 

"Okay," Melissa laughed, taking a step forward. "That means I can congratulate you both then go commiserate with John."

"Commiserate?" Stiles repeated indignantly, watching her hug Derek. "It's not like Lydia's pregnant!"

"I should hope not," came Lydia's smooth voice from behind them, and Stiles whirled around to see her walking into the kitchen with a massive bowl of pasta salad in her arms, Allison and Chris Argent just behind her. Stiles forced a grin onto his face, mentally backtracking through the last thirty seconds' worth of conversation to make sure they hadn't overheard anything too drastic.

"Just talking about the future," Melissa said, unabashed, and Stiles shot her a grateful look that said nice save.

"I told Scott," Lydia said, nodding her thanks when Derek took the bowl from her arms. "No babies until I've got my doctorate."

"Thank you," Melissa murmured, grabbing Chris by the arm so they could escape out to the back deck. Stiles could hear Scott and Isaac out back; it sounded as though they'd set up the volleyball net, which was slightly worrying - they could get super destructive when they started having too much fun.

"Oh my god," he said to Derek, as Lydia turned to talk to Allison about Reims. Derek raised his eyebrows and Stiles continued, "I just started worrying about Scott and Isaac getting too rambunctious and destroying the house. How old am I?"

Derek leveled him with a solemn look. "I did notice you've starting reusing ziplock bags."

"Oh no," Stiles groaned. "Might as well call the retirement home, babe. I'm done."

Derek snorted, bumping into Stiles' side as he headed for the back door. "You've got some time left," he said, the corners of his eyes wrinkling up. "My grandmother used to reuse paper towels. I won't worry til then."

In the end, Scott and Isaac only broke one lawn chair which was, for them, pretty good. Erica and Boyd showed up before long, and more family - Lydia's mom, and Erica's parents, even Boyd's elusive mom, who was a doctor and worked even more hours than Melissa. They ate food and got drunk and talked and laughed. At this point in their lives, all their parents were aware of their children's involvement in the supernatural, so no one batted an eye when Isaac teased Erica too much about her wedding and she shifted with a snarl and shoved him off the porch. Her father just rolled his eyes and returned to his conversation swapping horror stories about US Customs with Chris Argent.

Later, looking very sheepish, Derek handed cards to all the graduates - except Stiles, who complained, "Where's my card?"

"You already got your gift," Derek said sarcastically, with a significant glance at Stiles' stomach. Stiles scowled at him as Scott snorted. Derek turned a little pink and added to the group at large, "You don't - you don't have to open them now," which was everyone's cue to rip the envelopes open. Stiles was startled by the silence that fell over the pack. Scott muttered, "Jeeze, Derek," and if Stiles hadn't known better he would have sworn that Lydia had just wiped away a tear.

"What'd you do?" he accused Derek, trying and failing to snatch Scott's card out of his hand.

"Why didn't Boyd and I get a soppy card?" Erica grumbled.

"I gave you gifts when Boyd graduated from the police academy and you got your masseuse license," Derek snapped, flushing dark. "Ungrateful." He wouldn't meet anyone's eyes for the next half hour, not even when anyone tried to thank him for whatever had been inside the card.

Most of the parents left after a while, leaving their children to carouse around a fire Boyd and Isaac had built in the backyard. Soon it was just the pack and Stiles' dad left and Derek nudged Stiles. "You ready to make an announcement?"

Stiles sucked in a deep breath. "I think so."

"You sure?" Derek pressed, his brow furrowing. "We can wait."

Stiles shook his head. "No, everyone's here. Might as well."

"Okay," Derek said softly. He got to his feet, pulling Stiles with him, his hand firm and warm around Stiles'. Scott noticed them standing and coughed, the rest of the pack falling silent as they turned to look at Derek and Stiles. "We've got an announcement," he said, and squeezed Stiles' hand.

"Uh," Stiles said, his cheeks flooding pink. "We, uh, we - " His eyes landed on his dad, standing over by the food table with a beer in his hand, watching him, and his usual courage completely failed him.

"We're having a baby," Derek said smoothly, when Stiles was silent for too long. "More accurately, Stiles is having a baby."

Everyone in the pack looked at Stiles' stomach and Stiles crossed his arms over it uncomfortably. "C'mon, guys," he pleaded, "cut it out."

"Oh!" Boyd said suddenly. "That's why you smell so freaking weird!"

"Oh, oh!" Erica exclaimed over him. "That's why Derek smashed the beer." She gave Derek an irritated look. "You could have just said."

"You knew," Lydia accused Scott, who grinned sheepishly. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Allison was the first to lean forward and say with a smile, "Congrats, you guys," which brought everyone's attention back to Stiles and Derek. They found themselves swarmed, hugged by pack members on all sides, and Stiles felt tension he hadn't even been aware of leave his shoulders. The baby had been welcomed and accepted by the pack; it just felt right. He glanced up as Derek nuzzled against his temple on one side and Scott hugged him from the other. His dad stood watching them and he smiled when Stiles caught his eye, raising his beer bottle in a silent toast. Stiles' heart swelled.

The pack pulled apart after a long while and settled back around the fire, resuming their idle chatter. Stiles headed inside after a while, leaving the pack discussing increasingly terrible baby names ("Gertrude." "Cyclops." "Murgatroyd."). He was feeling tired, face hot from the fire, and paced around the kitchen, cleaning idly. He looked up when his dad came in.

"Heading out?"

"Think so," his dad replied, stifling a yawn. "Early shift tomorrow."

"All right," Stiles said, stepping over to give his father a hug.

"Proud of you," his dad murmured, pressing a swift kiss to his temple. "Here." He pressed an envelope into Stiles' hands. "A little something from me and your mom."

"Dad," Stiles said, his throat tightening. "You don't need to get me anything. I don't need money."

"I know," his father said, his face soft and a little sad, "and I know Derek's going to take care of you, but I'm your dad. I get to take care of you too. Treat yourself or the baby - just have fun."

"Thanks," Stiles said again, almost a whisper.

"There's, uh, a note in there," his dad told him. "From your mom. I should have given it to you a while ago, but it got mixed up with her things and I - well, I found it the other day."

"Thanks," Stiles said for a third time, his voice softer. He looked down at the envelope in his hand.

"Well," his dad said, clearing his throat. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye, Dad," Stiles said, not lifting his eyes from the envelope. He heard his dad leave, the front door opening and closing behind him, and then Stiles lifted his eyes, glancing outside to where the pack sprawled around the fire. They wouldn't miss him for a few more minutes.

Stiles headed upstairs, turning on the light on his nightstand and sitting down on the edge of his bed. He carefully opened the envelope, pulling out a generic Hallmark card with his dad's untidy scrawl across the inside: Always knew you had it in you. Dad. Tucked inside was a check for a thousand dollars, which made his throat burn, and another smaller envelope. It said Stiles on it in a slightly wavery handwriting - it took a moment for him to realize it was his mom's.

He ran his fingers over the edge of the envelope for a long moment, hands shaking very faintly. The glue was old, old enough that it didn't even tear under his fingers, the paper peeling apart easily. He pulled out the piece of paper folded inside, unfolding it to find a drawing he'd done when he was a kid - a family portrait of him and his parents, crudely represented by stick figures. He ran his fingers over the rough heart drawn above them in red crayon, fingers trembling. Stiles could remember drawing it, sitting on his mom's lap as she sat in the hospital, her hands running over his short hair.

He flipped it over and there was a message from her on the back. Cherish the small moments, it said. They're the things you'll never forget.

"Stiles?"

Stiles wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, brittle piece of paper in his hands, but he looked up at the sound of his name. Derek knelt before him, looking concerned, and Stiles realized he'd been crying, his face and the collar of his shirt sopping with tears.

"Oh," Stiles said, mopping at his face. "Hey."

"You okay?" Derek asked, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah," Stiles said, carefully setting aside the piece of paper. "Just, uh, emotionally compromised." He sniffed loudly.

Derek's face softened and he put his hands on Stiles' knees, rubbing gently at his thighs. "You gonna be all right?"

Stiles breathed in deeply and watched Derek's hands, suddenly consumed by a fierce surge of love for him, for his care and kindness, for his bad moods, for his everything. Stiles leaned forward and caught Derek's face between his hands. "You know I fucking love you, right?"

"I've had my suspicions," Derek replied, sounding bemused.

"Ugh," Stiles groaned, pushing forward to kiss him. Then he tugged at Derek's shirt, tugging him up, up. "Come here."

Derek rose gracefully, flicking off the light before sinking down on top of him. They squirmed out of their clothes, mouths hardly separating even when Derek worked him open and slid inside. They fucked in near silence, bodies sliding together in perfect harmony in the near darkness of the room, fingers tangled together over Stiles' head. He sighed when he came, hips jolting upward. Derek kissed him through it, body going still when he found his own release a minute later, breathing hard against Stiles' cheek.

They lay with the sheets kicked down to the end of the bed, skin cooling in a breeze from the open window. Stiles could hear their friends outside, still laughing around the fire. Cherish this, he thought fiercely. Never forget it.

"Hey," he said to Derek, who shifted behind him, tightening his grip around Stiles' stomach. "I'm really glad that we're doing this." 

"Wouldn't want to do this with anyone else," Derek murmured. Stiles wormed around until he could see Derek's face, soft in the darkness, his eyes half shut. 

"Love you," Stiles repeated softly, his heartbeat fluttering at the way Derek's mouth curved up. 

"Love you too," Derek murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. "You going to come back outside?"

"Nah," Stiles sighed, rolling onto his stomach. "I'm beat. You go and be a good host."

Derek snorted, leaning down to press a kiss behind Stiles' ear before getting out of bed. "If the pack manages to convince me that Cyclops is a good name for our baby, I'm blaming you because you weren't there."

"That's not so bad," Stiles murmured sleepily. "'s a chance I'm willing to take."

-

A month slipped by. Stiles got the internship with Fish & Wildlife, which was a relief; it got him out of the house most of the day and he saw Scott often, which was fun. He saw about the same amount of Derek, since he was still in and out of the house all the time with two jobs, but they were quickly settling into life living together and Stiles was happy. He'd been a little worried that, upon moving in with Derek, he might find out something about Derek he couldn't live with - like he was horrifically messy, maybe, or unbearably moody, but he should have known better. He'd known Derek for like seven years, after all; if there was something wrong with him, Stiles would have noticed it a long time ago. 

Mostly, though, when he wasn't working Derek was working out or cooking - he really liked cooking, Stiles found, which was cool with him. Derek also had this distressing habit of going for a run and then coming back and seeking out Stiles in the house to drape himself over him, all sweaty and damp. It should have been disgusting - it was disgusting - but maybe it was hormones or something because most of the time Stiles couldn't bring himself to care; he'd curl his fingers against Derek's sweaty t-shirt and press his face against Derek's hot neck. 

If they were home together, Derek - and Stiles couldn't tell if this was because of the baby, or because they just hadn't spent so much time together before - Derek was always near him, touching him somehow, whether it was their thighs pressed up against each other's as they ate dinner, or a hand curled around the back of his neck. This would have bothered Stiles in the past - he liked touching, but he didn't like people being clingy - and maybe it was hormones again, but all he wanted was Derek close. If he woke up after Derek, his feet would absently carry him to wherever Derek was in the house so he could curl his arms around Derek's waist, press his face between Derek's shoulder blades. They lay in bed at night and Derek always sank between his thighs, rubbing his cheek against Stiles' thighs over and over until Stiles was sure he was going to get sores. Usually the nights ended in blowjobs or Derek rimming Stiles until he screamed, so he wasn't complaining.

They had a lot of sex; by the time they'd been in the house a month, Stiles was pretty sure they'd christened just about every single new piece of furniture with a good sex session. The pack hated it; they came over often, and all the werewolves complained. Stiles didn't give a fuck; he considered it payback for every time he and Derek had been cockblocked by them in the past. The complaints were good-natured, anyway; no one was in a bad mood, not with the baby on the way and Erica and Boyd getting married in a matter of weeks. Derek told Stiles that the pack felt healthy, alive - that this was the way a thriving pack was supposed to feel. Stiles thought he could feel it too - a deep, comforting thrum of pure life. They had a lot of movie nights that passed with everyone crammed together on the living room floor, connected, Stiles' head hazy with content and good health. (These moments never lasted too long, though, because they also made him horny as fuck and he'd have to extricate himself from the pile to drag Derek into the downstairs bathroom and give him the sloppiest blowjob he could manage, or ride him until there were tears in his eyes.)

After they announced the pregnancy, Stiles knew he really needed to think about things and not just assume everything would work out. He ordered the pregnancy books sitting in his Amazon cart, as well as the prenatal vitamins Melissa had recommended (and yeah, he or Derek could have picked them up from the store, but Beacon Hills was a small town, and he didn't need to have people speculating on the girl he'd knocked up). He and Derek took another trip back down to the baby store in Redding and Stiles breathed deeply and didn't freak out. He spent the check his dad had given him for graduation on a really nice crib and changing table. Derek magnanimously declared that since his dad had paid for it, they should put it together with him and so the sheriff came over one Sunday afternoon and assembled the crib with them, sharing stories of Stiles as a baby. Derek hooked his chin over Stiles' shoulder as the three of them sat on the floor and told them his grandfather had built a crib for his mother when she was born, which was then used after for Peter, then Laura and Derek and Cora. Solid oak, Derek said, sounding a little wistful, with acorns and oak leaves carved into the ends. The Druids considered oak a protector and Deaton's mother, who had been the Hale pack's emissary before him, had blessed it. Derek didn't say what had happened to it, but Stiles knew that it had been lost in the fire. 

Derek called Cora two days after the graduation party. As Stiles predicted, she laughed so hard she dropped her phone and then kept laughing for several minutes afterward, while Derek paced around the living room, his phone on speaker. Stiles sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, reading posts on Reddit, but he set his phone down when Cora finally got her breath back and asked, "So you guys are serious? When's it due?"

"End of January," Stiles told her, because he'd thought about that much, at least. 

"Mom's birthday was in January," she said thoughtfully. Derek, pacing over by the television, paused. "Well," Cora continued after a short pause. "Congrats, you guys."

"Thanks," Stiles said, a little surprised. He'd expected more teasing. 

After they'd hung up, though, Derek said, "She understands how important this is for the pack."

Stiles looked up at him, standing next to the coffee table with a far-off, contemplative look on his face. "What are you thinking about?"

Derek looked down at him. "My mom," he said placidly. 

Stiles tilted his head. "What about her?"

Derek shrugged and dropped down onto the couch next to Stiles, his hand immediately snaking out to curl over Stiles' thigh. Stiles watched him for a moment, thoughtful. He honestly didn't know that much about Derek's family. Derek didn't like to talk about them - for good reason; Stiles was the same way about his mom, even if he'd only been nine when she died - but he knew that Derek's father had been human and he'd died long before the fire, when Derek was young. Stiles wasn't quite sure what he'd died from - he'd never been able to get from Derek whether it'd been an accident or something else entirely - but Stiles also knew that Derek had had a seriously solid bond with his mom. He curled his hand over Derek's and asked, "D'you think she'd be proud of you?"

Derek sat silent for a moment before he said, "I - I think so. I wasn't much of an alpha to start with, but I think - I hope - that I've gotten better. The pack's strong. It's not as big as our old pack, but we're solid."

Stiles smiled, his fingers tightening over Derek's. "You've done a great job." 

Derek looked over at him and smiled faintly. "I was thinking about talking to Scott about expanding the pack," he said. "After the baby's born and things have settled down a bit." 

"Really?" Stiles asked curiously. "Biting more people?"

Derek shook his head. "I don't think so. But there are always people out there looking to join packs - omegas, but not willingly. I've heard of families getting kicked out of packs because they had babies that might challenge the alpha. And there are others. People whose packs have been wiped out." 

Stiles heard the silent Like me. He'd never be able to understand how lonely Derek must have been after his return to Beacon Hills with Laura dead, Scott resisting every offer to join together, Peter wreaking havoc. He could understand, though, why Derek wouldn't want to wish that on anyone else. It was that part of him that liked helping people. Stiles squeezed his hand again. "I think that's a great idea," he said. "I can't see Scott saying no." They both liked helping people, the dorks.

-

Boyd and Erica's wedding fell on one of the hottest days of the summer, a searing Saturday toward the end of July. Stiles was already sweating by the time he pulled on his suit jacket. His shirt had given him a bit of trouble; he hadn't gained much weight at that point - just a slight swell to the stomach that made him look as though he'd been drinking too many beers and not doing enough sit-ups - but since Lydia had made him buy dress shirts that actually fit his frame, the last couple of button had been a struggle. Now Stiles stared at himself in the mirror, eyeing the way the fabric stretched over his stomach with worry. He'd have to be careful about eating too much; he didn't want one of the buttons to go flying off and hit someone in the eye. 

"You okay?" Derek asked from behind him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his suit jacket neatly folded at his side, tying the laces to his dress shoes. 

"I look like a slob," Stiles sighed, "and you look devastatingly handsome, as usual." He scrubbed a hand across his forehead, swiping at the sweat gathering at his temples. 

Derek got to his feet and stepped up behind Stiles, looping his arms around his waist. "You look fine," he murmured, eyes settling half shut. "More than fine." He pressed a slow kiss to Stiles' cheek, drawing his nose along Stiles' hairline. 

"Cut it out," Stiles said, squirming out of his grip. "It's too hot, and I want to get the deposit back on this suit." Derek made a disappointed face and Stiles patted him on the arm. "I know, big fella, I know. We can't be late, anyway - Erica will kill us."

"That's true," Derek mused. 

"You do look good, though," Stiles murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "It's a little unfair how good you look in a suit."

Derek snorted, pushing Stiles toward the door. "Come on," he said. "We better get out of here before I get kicked out of the wedding party."

"Good thing Cora's already gone," Stiles laughed, trampling down the stairs. She'd come back into town a couple days earlier - Derek had driven down to Sacramento to pick her up from the airport (and upon her arrival at the house she'd surprised Stiles by giving him not one but two hugs; "You smell so good," she'd said, sounding bewildered and slightly suspicious, before Derek dragged her away). She'd pitched a fit when she'd walked in on them making out in the pantry ("This is my house," Derek had protested. "At least we still have our pants on," Stiles told her cheerfully.). They were alone in the house, though; Cora had spent the morning with Erica, getting ready. 

"Doesn't Boyd need you?" Stiles asked Derek, adjusting his tie before reaching for his keys. 

"For what?"

"Good point," Stiles said, after a moment's reflection. Boyd was uncomplicated. Stiles appreciated that about him. When they were on the road a few minutes later, heading to the little church where Erica and Boyd were getting married, Stiles said, "Okay. Scenario time: someone gets cold feet. Who's it gonna be - Boyd or Erica?"

Derek tapped his fingers against the armrest. "Neither," he said eventually. "Boyd never rushes into anything he hasn't planned out, and Erica never admits she's wrong."

Stiles grinned. "Is that what you wrote on their cards?" Derek groaned; Stiles had been trying to get it out of him what he'd written on everyone's graduation cards since the party. Derek - and anyone else for that matter - had yet to budge, but he was determined to find out someday. He'd break into Scott and Isaac's apartment if he had to. 

The wedding was beautiful. Short, too, which was even better. The small church was crammed full of Boyd's huge family and Erica's smaller one and Stiles' dad and all the deputies from the station - and the pack, too, though most of them made up the wedding party. Stiles was, in fact, the only member of the pack not standing at the front of the room but he wasn't bothered; it made sense. Derek had turned Boyd, Scott was his alpha, Isaac was a fellow beta, and Boyd and Stiles had never been all that close anyway. Allison, Cora, and Lydia all stood by Erica's side, their emerald green dresses a match to the guys' ties. Stiles liked being in the audience; he got to watch Scott's face screw up as he tried not to cry, and he was pretty sure Derek got a little teary-eyed as well, though it was hard to be sure (and Derek would deny it until the day he died if Stiles tried asking).

After the ceremony, after Boyd picked Erica up and whirled her around and around, everyone got into their cars and drove over to the hall where the reception was being held. 

[They were going to have some raunchy bathroom sex here, I do remember that. At this point, I had done what I shouldn't have done and began writing future scenes I hadn't gotten to yet, which is a big no-no for me, because it means I lose motivation to write the boring stuff that comes in between...which is exactly what happened here. Anyway, the idea was going to be that what happened here is after a few lovely months of living together, Derek leaves for a relationship-building visit with another pack - and then never comes back. Stiles waits and waits and hopes, but the only news they ever get is Derek's car being found abandoned at a gas station [with a wedding ring in the glovebox heh heh], and eventually Stiles moves back in with his dad, has a rough birth, struggles to be happy:]

He spends most of his days in bed, laying on his side with Fiona tucked up against his chest. He bullies Scott into moving his bed up against the window and takes a lot of naps there, curled in the sun, curtains billowing in the breeze. Fiona is soft, small, quiet. She barely cries, not even when she's wet, only makes an uncomfortable whimper. He loves her, tells her she's beautiful, tells her she'll always be safe and cared for and she blinks up at him steadily with her big blue eyes. He thinks they've lightened since she was born and it hurts; he knows they're going to end up pale like Derek's. The thought makes him want to puke. 

It's mid-March. Fiona's two months old and she drools like crazy. Her hands are always covered in it. His dad makes him get out of bed, walk up and down the hall so his muscles don't start to atrophy. He carries Fee when he does; she seems to like it, but it exhausts him and he usually sleeps for a couple hours after doing it. Scott keeps coming over despite Stiles' utter lack of enthusiasm. He sits on the end of the bed and talks for ages, telling Stiles what's going on in town, and sits with Fiona in his lap, letting her curl her tiny fingers around his. Listening to him is also exhausting, but Scott doesn't get offended when Stiles falls asleep on him. 

Stiles likes it when Boyd comes over. He doesn't talk much, carries Fiona around the house in his big arms. She seems to like him, doesn't fuss like she does when Lydia or Isaac holds her. Boyd puts his face close to hers and shifts experimentally. Fiona is fascinated; she lifts her tiny hands with an excited noise and Stiles laughs for the first time since he left the hospital. Sometimes Erica comes over with Boyd. Fiona loves her blonde curls. 

At night, his dad makes him come downstairs and sit at the table so he can eat. It's hard at first, navigating the stairs, and there's no way he dares carry Fee down with him, but his dad walks at his side with one steady hand on his shoulder and Fee tucked in his other arm. It gets easier after a while as his muscles relax and he gains strength. 

He's taking fewer naps by April, actually leaves the house to take Fiona on a walk around the block. He doesn't care that the neighbors are going to gossip, that the news is finally going to start spreading around town that he has a child. The fresh air is worth it. Scott, walking along next to him, laughs at the way Fiona moves her head back and forth, scenting at the air. 

He's coming out of a post-walk nap one afternoon when there's a pounding on the front door. Boyd, sitting in his computer chair with Fiona, tenses. Scott, who was sitting at the end of Stiles' bed, leaps to his feet, his eyes flashing yellow. 

"I - I'm not expecting anyone," Stiles says, his voice going hoarse with fright. "Lydia's not coming until seven."

"I'll see who it is," Scott growls, stalking out of the room. Boyd stands and moves to the side of the bed. Stiles takes Fiona from him, curling her tight to his chest. She makes a sleepy noise but doesn't stir. He tenses when he hears voices downstairs and looks up at Boyd, who's frowning. Suddenly there's feet pounding up the stairs and Scott bursts back into the room. Stiles shrinks back against the headboard because Allison's right on his heels.

"I don't want her here," he says weakly, drawing his knees to his chest like that's going to shield Fee from Allison's gaze.

"Just listen," Scott tells him. "Give her a chance."

"I don't - "

"STILES," Allison says plaintively. "We think we found Derek."

It's like someone's sucked all the air from his lungs. For a long moment, all Stiles can do is gape at her, his mouth hanging open. Then anger and hurt swells in him, crests in his head like a wave. He's shouting before he realizes it, all the blood rushing to his face. "GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!" Fiona jolts awake with a startled wail. 

"Stiles," Scott says anxiously. "Just let her - "

"I don't want to hear it!" Stiles pleads. "Please, just leave me the fuck alone."

"Stiles, he didn't leave you on purpose!" Allison cries, looking like she's about to cry. Stiles' mouth falls open again, that painful clenching back in his heart. The whole room has gone silent; even Fiona's stopped crying, staring up at him with her big pale eyes, cheeks flushed from wailing. Stiles looks down and tries to keep himself together, smoothing his fingers over her soft hair. 

"Tell me," he says finally, throat tightening. 

"One of Dad's friends came into town last night," Allison tells him gently. "And we were - we were talking about you, and he said that he knows of a group of hunters that have been keeping an alpha captive, and it might be Derek."

"Might be," Stiles repeats. He doesn't dare let himself start hoping. 

"It's almost certain, Stiles," Allison says. "Dad's giving them a call. He knows this family; he's got a good relationship with them. He thinks he can convince them to let him go, and if he can't, then - then we'll TAKE him back." 

"What if it's not him?" Stiles whispers. 

"Then we'll keep looking," Scott says firmly. "He never would have left you like this, Stiles. You know that."

"I'm not having this conversation again," Stiles says, his eyes burning. "I don't - "

"Okay, okay." Scott raises his hands. "Let's just wait and see what Chris says before we go any further."

"Okay," Stiles says, taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, composing himself. When he opens them, he looks at Allison. "You can wait on the porch."

"Stiles," Scott begins, but Allison shakes her head quickly, biting at her lip. Her eyes drop to Fiona and she looks like she wants to say something but maybe she thinks better of it, because she walks out of the room. Stiles can hear her thumping down the stairs.

"Can you guys please give me a minute?" Stiles asks quietly. Boyd nods. Scott looks like he wants to argue, but Boyd takes him by the sleeve and leads him out of the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind them.

Stiles sinks down among his pillows, cradling Fiona, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He takes another, then another. They don't stop the tears, but they keep him away from a panic attack, keep his heart beating steady even if it is beating twice as fast as usual.

He wants to hope so bad. He never wanted to believe that Derek had just walked out on them. Even if he hated Stiles, Stiles couldn't see him leaving behind more of his own flesh and blood. Derek didn't abandon things, not when they were so important to him. Not when he'd spent months mumbling I love you into the hollows of Stiles' throat and against the swell of his stomach. He wouldn't do that.

Fiona shifts in his arms, making a small, unhappy noise. She's already in tune with his feelings; his distress hurts her. "Sorry, baby girl," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her forehead. He swallows thickly. "Just missing your dad."

He closes his eyes, taking a few more deep breaths. When his heart-rate's gone down a little, he wipes at his face and calls, "Scott?"

Scott appears in the doorway a few second later, looking concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just - " Stiles swallows again. "When I said 'what if it's not him,' you said 'we'll keep looking.' Ha-have you been looking for Derek?"

Scott's brow furrows. He flops himself down on the edge of the bed as he says, "Of course we have, dude. Why would we stop? You've been miserable without him. And even if he left on his own - we'd bring him back here just so you could punch him."

Stiles laughs shortly, unhappily. "Thank you."

Scott smiles sadly. "You're my best friend," he says. "I'd do anything for you."

Stiles sniffs and hands him Fee. "Hold my baby while I wash my face, then."

"My pleasure," Scott grins. He wiggles his fingers against Fiona's stomach and she waves her small arms around.

It's nearly two hours later before Allison comes hurrying back up the stairs, her face pink from sitting outside in the cool spring air. Stiles stiffens as she comes into the room, his heartbeat picking up. Scott puts a hand on his leg, his touching anchoring.

"My dad just called," Allison tells Stiles in a rushing jumble of words. "It's him."

"Okay." Stiles nods. "Okay. Okay." He's laughing suddenly, rich in relief, laughs until he can't breath and there are fresh tears tracking down his face. Scott crowds in close, throwing his arms around him. Boyd's on his other side, arm around his shoulders. Allison hovers in the doorway, her eyes shining. "Okay," Stiles says again, finally, wiping at his face. "What's the plan?"

-

The entire pack gathers at the Stilinski house the following morning. Chris has negotiated Derek's release with the hunters, but they're stationed in eastern Idaho, so it's going to be a long trip out there. Stiles wants to go, desperately, but Scott and his dad flat-out refuse to let him.

"This isn't fair," Stiles hisses.

"Just because they've agreed to let Derek go doesn't mean they're not dangerous," Scott says seriously. "You know what Fiona's worth."

"I wouldn't bring her!" Stiles protests.

Scott shakes his head. "No, but what if you get hurt? Or killed?"

"It's for the best," Stiles' father says, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You've waited this long. You can wait a few more days."

Stiles bit down on his lip, but forced himself to nod. They were right. He could do this.

It's hard, though, watching them drive off down the street in two big SUVs. They argued long and hard over who'd be staying behind with Stiles. If Derek was hurt, the more pack present, the faster he'd heal, so it would have made sense, on the surface, to have Scott stay behind, but he was the leader while Derek was gone. In the end, Isaac stayed behind. He didn't look too happy about it, which Stiles understood, though when he joking suggested that they follow behind on their own, Isaac's glare could have killed.

"Fine," Stiles mutters, and slowly heads back inside and up to his bed.

He sleeps until the early evening, then goes downstairs to watch tv with his dad and Isaac. He lets his dad take Fee, smiles at the way the sheriff dotes on her. Lydia comes over later, a powerhouse of energy, as usual. Her presence is distracting - it's what Stiles needs, because he's been counting the hours in his head. The gang left at ten; they'll be reaching the hunters' compound at around three in the morning. Lydia won't let him watch the clock; she takes his phone away and puts in a movie so he can't watch the time on the DVD player.

It's nearly one when he goes to bed. He wants to stay up and wait for any messages, but he's exhausted again so he drags himself and Fiona upstairs.

He wakes suddenly in the morning, heart pounding, and snatches up his phone. Fee's making noises over in her crib like she's getting hungry, but Stiles has to check his messages.

There's nothing.

His heart plummets. He turns his phone on and off, like maybe it's broken, but even though he stands there and waits nearly five minutes, no messages come through. Stiles forces himself to breathe in deep, exhaling slowly. They got there late. He's not sure if they were heading straight to the compound, or if they were going to a hotel. He shuts his eyes, counts to five, then opens them again. Calm. Calm is important.

He sends Scott a message. did you guys make it? please tell me the hunters didn't kill you.

Stiles sets his phone down. Breathes in. He picks Fiona up and changes her, his hands full when his phone buzzes. Stiles nearly drops his daughter, but forces himself to focus on the task at hand. When she's got a fresh diaper on, though, he darts over to his phone to see what Scott's said.

sorry, got in v. late last night. having breakfast w/ hunters. plenty of food, v. unfriendly. keep trying to pretend they don't know why we're here.

Stiles grits his teeth. He'd been against Chris going with them but he wishes that the hunter had gone, now. what are you going to do?

keep at it, Scott writes back. i think i can smell him. we'll take him by force if we need to. just trying to get out of this with no one getting hurt.

That's the last he hears from Scott for two hours. It's agonizing, but he makes himself take Fiona downstairs so he can get her bottle. Isaac's asleep on the couch, but his dad's in the kitchen and they sit for a while, mostly in silence, with Stiles' phone on the table in-between them. Isaac's just wandered in to make himself some coffee when Stiles' phone buzzes with another message.

GOT HIM!

Stiles almost sobs in relief. He dials Scott's number immediately, hands shaking. He doesn't even give Scott a chance to say hello when he picks up, exclaiming, "How is he? Is he okay? Can I talk to him? When are you coming back?"

Scott exhales on the other end of the line. "He's unconscious right now, Stiles. He's hurt. Really hurt. We're going to get a couple of hotel rooms and let him recuperate for a while."

"How long is a while?" Stiles asks immediately. "Are we talking hours? Days?"

"At least a day," Scott sighs. "He - riding in a car wouldn't be good for him right now. I'm sorry. I know you need him."

"No, no," Stiles says hurriedly, even though it tears his heart apart to say it. "I trust you. Can you - can you just send me a picture?"

Scott hesitates a long second before saying, "Yeah, okay. I'm gonna hang up, but I'll keep in touch."

"Bye," Stiles says impatiently, and ends the call.

The photo comes a few minutes later. Stiles can't bring himself to open it; his hands are shaking. Even Isaac's hands on his shoulder can't steady him. His dad has to lean over and slide open the message.

It's Derek, just his face. His eyes are closed, sunken, dark half moons under them. His face is thin, his beard long, but it's Derek.

-

Isaac's head comes up sharply. "They're pulling up."

"What?!" Stiles yelps, scrambling out of his chair. He runs to the window, bending to see that Isaac's correct; the two SUVs are pulling up to the front of the house. Stiles yelps again and dashes for the front door, jerking it open and stepping out onto the porch just in time to see Scott helping Derek out of the back of one of the cars. He's skinny, much of his muscle mass gone, and he's pale, but he's still Derek.

Stiles makes a wounded noise and Derek's head snaps up as he throws himself off the porch, sprinting across the lawn. Scott has to brace Derek when Stiles slams into him, but Derek doesn't seem to notice; he's got his arms wrapped so tight around Stiles than he can hardly breathe, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care, because he's got Derek back - his boyfriend, his mate. Derek's got his face buried in Stiles' neck and he's making desperate keening noises against his skin, barely human, each vocalization stabbing at Stiles' heart like a knife. Stiles is no better; he's crying, nails digging into Derek's back, clinging to him tight.

Eventually Derek's noises turn into words. Stiles realizes he's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over. He makes himself take a deep, shuddering breath, pressing his lips to Derek's temple before pulling back, just a little. "Come on," he says hoarsely, tugging at Derek's hands. "Come on."

His father steps out onto the porch with Fiona in his arm. Derek spots them and makes another broken noise. "It's okay," Stiles tells him. "It's okay, just see."

He takes Fee from his father and turns to Derek, suddenly nervous. Derek steps in close, his forehead touching Stiles' as they look down at Fiona. Their daughter. Stiles listens to Derek breathe, watches him lift his hand and brush one big finger against her cheek with the utmost care. Fee stirs, blinking wearily up at them, and all the breath hisses out of Derek.

Stiles sinks to the grass, pulling Derek with him, because he thinks his legs might give out if he doesn't, and Derek's not looking too good either. It's safer this way; if she gets dropped, it's only a foot to the grass. Stiles passes Fee to Derek, who looks awed, and curls in against his side. "See what we did, Der?" he asks softly.


	4. omega!Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 18k
> 
> This one spawned out of some convos between Renqa and me, but I also began writing my other omega!Derek fic, "here comes trouble," at the same time (that was fic #29, this is fic #30), and I think I burned out on omega!Derek, too much at once. Also, there's some age difference in this fic (17 vs 24, I think), which is something I'm not suuuuper comfortable with, and eventually ended up abandoning it. However, this piece does include some bonus artwork, as we intended this to be a collab illustrated throughout!

Derek is late to work. It’s not the first time this month, or the second, or even the first time this week. The Camaro’s on its last legs but he’s reluctant to give up on it; it belonged to his dad and it’s got a lot of sentimental value. Laura’s going to be pleased - she’s not as sentimental as he is, and she couldn’t care less about cars, but she’s been harping away at him that it’s time to get something new and sensible, Der, it’s not like you’re compensating for anything, are you?

So it’s a bad day, worse because his heat’s approaching, flushing his cheeks for no good reason. He knows he smells like it, too - he’s not blind; he can see people glancing his way. Laura would probably tell him to take the day off, but she works from home so what does she know.

And all right, he is not, technically, late because he owns the business and sets his own hours, but the principle of it is still important, and he needs to set a good example for the guys in the workshop, especially for their new intern, though Derek suspects he’ll have to fire him soon anyway. How does the kid not understand that they can all smell him reeking of pot? Maybe that’d pass at some Fortune 500 company where all you’d have to do is sit behind a desk and answer phones, but you can’t be high when you’re using power tools; it just doesn’t end well.

Whatever. He’ll get his morning coffee and then he’ll fire Ian and then - someone grabs his arm and Derek stops abruptly. He’s already angry and on edge because of his heat and he doesn’t like being touched by strangers and he twists around, ready to rip someone’s head off, but he doesn’t. Instead Derek breathes in the best scent he’s smelled in a long time - ever, maybe; sweet fresh basil and tart lemon and clean cotton - and he blinks, rage quelled just like that.

The hand on his arm is attached to a lanky young man who’s staring at him, pupils blown wide and rimmed with amber, mouth hanging open. It’s not an attractive look; Derek blames the heat for not looking away, for watching the young man’s chest rise and fall, his nostrils flare. The hand on his arm doesn’t fall away and Derek almost closes his eyes, feeling the young man’s pulse against his skin. The more he breathes in that fresh scent, the more his insides twists, the more he wants to sink to his knees and expose his throat, cheeks flushed with heat. This kid, whoever he is, is an alpha, and Derek wants him.

Someone jostles him as they pass on the sidewalk and Derek blinks again, coming to his senses a little. This isn’t - this has happened before, close to his heat, when the pheromones come into play. People get nasty, sometimes, about omegas in heat. He’s knocked out alphas who’ve gotten too pushy. A little anger surges in him again; he’s not a thing. People can’t just grab at him like he’s a buffet item. The anger’s enough to make him speak, voice cold: “Do I know you?”

“Uh,” the young man says, and color blooms on his cheeks, splotchy red. His eyes flicker down to Derek’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. “N-no. I guess not. Sorry.” He still doesn’t drop his hand from Derek’s arm. Derek looks at it deliberately, then back up at the young man, and twists around without another word, storming off toward the shop.

I’m not a thing, he thinks furiously, repeating the words over and over in his head like a mantra. I am not a possession. I am not a prize for some alpha to win. I am not a thing.

Derek storms into the shop, bad mood back and worse than ever. Erica’s working the counter but she takes one look at him and wisely doesn’t say a word, taking a step back so he can brush past her into the staff room. There’s a full pot of coffee sitting in the machine and he drinks two cups straight, black and scalding hot, before he feels a little like a person again. Only then does he pause, running a hand through his hair before he pours a third cup, which he takes out into the shop with him. The new Cora collection is out on the floor - the furniture’s stiff and unfriendly, just like Cora, and it’s been selling like hotcakes, probably because most of his clients are rich yoga moms who seem to hate themselves. Derek makes eye contact with Erica and jabs a finger toward it. “Dust, please.”

She nods and he heads for the back, the faint noise of machinery from the studio audible. It rises in volume as he steps through the doors and stops there, swinging his head around to watch his employees work - Stan’s on shaping, Boyd’s sanding, Isaac’s polishing. Ian’s hauling some bags of sawdust toward the storehouse and Derek leaves him be for now; unless he drops a lit joint in a bag, he can’t do much harm back there. The sound of the machines and the smell of fresh-cut wood relaxes him; some of his bad mood ebbs away. Boyd looks up from the sander and waves. Derek waves back and crosses the floor, heading for his office.

It’s quieter in the there, but there’s a window that looks out on the floor so he can watch the men work and make sure Ian doesn’t get himself into trouble. It’s a simple space; all there is a drafting table and a stool and a light, no clock on the wall, no clutter. Laura keeps telling him to get a computer, insisting that it’ll speed up the design process, but Derek likes the old-fashioned way. People have been designing furniture for hundreds of years without computers. He’ll keep up the tradition.

Derek sits down at the desk, drains the last of his coffee, sets some Bon Iver playing on his phone, and gets down to work. By the time Laura texts him asking him if he’s forgotten about dinner, the production floor is dark and empty - everyone’s left for the night - and Derek hasn’t moved in eight hours. He groans as he gets to his feet and stretches; his heat’s closer, an irritating itch between his thighs. It makes him achy and cranky and he really needs to see his doctor about changing his suppressants because they just haven’t been working these past few heats.

Laura’s already in his apartment when he gets there, and the air’s thick with the scent of pasta and tomatoes and garlic. Derek inhales gratefully, his stomach rumbling; he forgets to eat sometimes when he’s designing and he needs food, especially with his heat coming on.

“Took you long enough,” Laura sings, reeling him in for a kiss on the temple.

Derek growls halfheartedly, scowling when she ruffles a hand through his hair. He ducks away and slips into his room to change; his skin’s starting to feel sensitive, so he digs out an old, well-worn pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, and changes into them with a slow sigh.

“Long day?” Laura asks when he reemerges.

“The longest,” Derek agrees quietly. He bends, rooting around in the fridge until he finds a bottle of wine. “You want some?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Laura retorts, and Derek snorts, pouring them both generous glasses of pinot grigio.

“Where’s Cora?” he asks, handing Laura her glass.

Laura raises her eyebrows. “She didn’t tell you?” Derek shakes his head. “That little worm. She took that study-abroad in South America!”

Derek snorts again. “What’s Mom got to say about that?”

“Oh, she’s thrilled,” Laura says, rolling her eyes. “She’s already researching hotels in Argentina.”

Derek pulls out his phone and texts Cora: a goodbye would have been nice.

She replies almost immediately: your shitty furniture is giving me a bad reputation, you asshole. i needed to get away.

Derek laughs and shows Laura the text. She rolls her eyes again. “Drama queen. I didn’t run when you named that ugly-ass collection after me.”

“Says the woman who cried when I told her I had,” Derek replies, dumping garlic bread into a basket.

“Tears of anger, baby brother,” Laura says solemnly, following him to the table with a steaming bowl of pasta. “Tears of anger.”

-

Two hours and two bottles of wine later finds them lounging on the couch, Derek flipping through channels on the television while Laura fools around on her phone.

“Derek,” she says abruptly, “why haven’t you tried finding anyone for this heat?”

Derek grits his teeth. Laura tries at least once every heat cycle to convince him to find a partner. “As I’ve told you before,” he says icily, “if I wanted one, I’d find one.”

“It’s not like it’s hard,” Laura continues, like she hadn’t even heard him. “I mean, look.” She holds her phone up and Derek squints at it, then glowers.

“I am not finding a hook-up off Craigslist,” he snaps. “Jesus, Laura. If I wanted to be with someone, I would.”

“Suit yourself,” Laura sniffs. “I’m just saying heats are a lot more fun when you’re with someone.”

“I know that,” Derek growls. “I have spent heats with people before - you remember.”

“Yes,” Laura says, her mouth going tight, her tone softening. “I do.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, Derek deliberately focusing his attention on the tv, and Laura going back to her phone. She gets bored after a while and starts reading missed connections out loud, complete with narration. “‘Saw you on the county highway heading northbound yesterday morning. You: red hair, red Honda Civic. Me: 1997 Corolla.’ Oh, honey, you’re never catching that one. That’s pure desperation right there.”

Derek doesn’t really listen; he’s starting to fall asleep, the heat and the food getting to him. Laura tugs him in close, leaning his head on her shoulder, and he doesn’t fight her, eyes drifting shut as she talks. “Oh, oh, here’s one. ‘Beta for Alpha. Saw you in the Food Source soup aisle Monday afternoon. You winked at me and said “Nice cans.”’ God, that’s terrible.”

Derek snorts quietly. “Sounds like something you’d say.”

Laura smacks him on the side of the head lightly. “And this one’s you: ‘Alpha for Omega. Caught you on the street this morning and I thought you were going to smite me with your terrifying eyebrows. I’m sorry for the terrible first impression. Try again?’ Hey, Der?”

He’s gone stiff; he’d almost forgotten about the guy on the street this morning, the heavenly way he smelled, even if he had latched onto Derek’s arm like a jackass. He exhales harshly at the memory, heat prickling along his spine.

“Hey, baby brother,” Laura says lightly. “You smell like you’re about to come in your pants and I love you, but if you do that in front of me I’m gonna break your nose.”

“Fuck you,” Derek says, forcing himself upright. He rubs a hand over his face and Laura leans forward, looking concerned.

“You okay?” she presses softly. “I was just joking. I mean - that wasn’t you, was it?”

“I think it might be,” Derek groans, and tells her about the guy on the street. When he’s finished, she grins.

“So? You gonna reply?” she asks.

Derek makes an outraged noise. “I’m not going to reply to some stranger! Especially not some asshole alpha.”

Laura waves her hands dismissively. “Yeah, but he’s an alpha, Der. Was he cute?”

“That’s beside the point.”

Laura raises her eyebrows. “Fine. But just think about it - your heat’s going to hit tomorrow and you’re gonna - ”

“Be fine,” Derek interrupts harshly. “I’m going to be fucking fine.”

“Okay,” she says calmly, and she puts away her phone and they watch television for another half hour before Derek falls asleep. He wakes to Laura kissing him on the temple and she whispers, “I’m heading out. Text me when your heat’s over, okay?”

He nods and waits for her to leave before rising from the couch, shuffling into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. He climbs into bed and it feels heavenly, though sleep’s slow to come the second time around. Derek flips onto his side and reads the news on his phone and the whole time, he thinks about the guy from that morning.

It’s not like he particularly wants to be alone, but he’s never enjoyed his heats regardless of whether he’s been with someone or not. While it’s true that they’re easier and shorter with someone else around, that doesn’t make them particularly more enjoyable and, if it comes down to it, he’d rather just suffer through alone. Still...his eyes close briefly, heat flaring on his cheeks as he remembers how the guy on the street had smelled. Maybe it’s time to take another chance, no matter how daunting it seems.

Derek heaves a sigh and opens his eyes, opening a new tab on his phone so he can find the post on Craigslist. He stares at it for a while, thumb hovering over the contact button. What’s the worst that could happen? he asks himself. Worst is, he supposes, he finds another alpha as bad as Kate, but at least he gets heat sex out of it. He hits Contact and a box pops up so he can enter his message. Derek stares at it for nearly five minutes, brushing his finger against the screen every time it goes dark. He’s going to do this. He’s going to do this, but what does he say? What if it’s not even the right guy? Finally, he takes a deep breath, hammering out a message and hitting send before he can regret it.

Hey.

I think I’m the one you’re looking for. Oak Street this morning around 8?

\- D.

-

Derek wakes late the next morning, hot and sweaty, sticking to the sheets. He shoves his blankets back, lays there for a moment with his hand over his eyes. His heat’s not fully on him but he’s half-hard in an irritating sort of way; he glares down at his dick, knowing that if he touches himself his heat will kick in faster, but he doesn’t want it yet so he resists the urge, pushing himself out of bed. He showers, aware it’ll probably be the last time he has the presence of mind for it for a couple of days, then makes a massive breakfast of eggs and bacon - he’ll need the protein.

It’s not until he’s settled at the kitchen table, shoveling down forkfuls of scrambled eggs, when he thumbs open his phone to call the shop and make sure everyone’s set for a couple of days, that he sees the new message notification hovering over the mail icon. Derek’s lips part slowly; he’d already forgotten about the email he’d sent the night before. He licks his lips, nervous, as he taps the icon and the new message loads.

Hey man, the message reads. That’s me! I’m really sorry about yesterday. I know it’s a poor excuse for accosting you in the middle of the street but I can’t even describe how good you smell. I know that’s super creepy to say so I’m sorry about that too. I’d really like to see you again - or meet you officially, rather. Would you be up for coffee sometime? - Stiles

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly. It’s a weird name. He reads through the message twice more, pulse quickening. He’s both disappointed and somewhat gratified that Stiles’ reply wasn’t an immediate request for sex; he’s not used to people wanting to get coffee. At the same time though, it’s going to be a couple days before he’ll be able to get out of the apartment, let alone be presentable for a coffee date. It’s not quite what he wants, either, at this point.

So he writes back, in what he hopes is an open-ended, but not dismissive way.

Hi Stiles.

I can’t do coffee this week. My heat hits today.

Derek

He hits send and then refuses to think about it for the next half hour. He calls the shop and makes sure they’re set for the week; Erica cheerfully informs him that Ian managed to cut the tip of his finger off with the bandsaw and Derek sighs. “Pay for his medical bills and tell him not to come back,” he says.

“Will do!” Erica says cheerfully and Derek hangs up, carefully placing the phone face down while he eats the rest of his breakfast, resisting the urge to check for a reply from Stiles every thirty seconds. He does his dishes and only then does he check his phone, heart rate increasing when he sees he has a new message from Stiles.

Do you need a heat partner? Do you WANT one?

Derek swallows, dick pulsing in his pants. Yes and yes, he types back. Please.

The message has barely sent before a new one comes in. Just give me a time and place and I’ll be there.

Derek exhales harshly, hands shaking a little as he punches in his address and ASAP.

I’ll be there. Give me an hour, Stiles writes back not thirty seconds later. Derek shuts his eyes for a moment, pressing a hand against his crotch. He can feel the heat building in anticipation; just knowing that he’s going to be sharing his bed with someone has his heat building faster than he expected. He’s already wet; it takes a great deal of self-restraint to not give in and just fuck his hand. He makes himself clean the apartment as much as he can - not that it really matters but again, it’s the principle of it all - and he checks the fridge. There’s not much food in there, but he doesn’t usually eat that much during the heat itself, and there’s always takeout if necessary.

He texts Laura when he starts to get antsy, ranging around the apartment impatiently. i messaged that guy. he’s coming over.

i knew u had it in u, Laura texts back. u horny bastard.

Derek snorts, sweat slipping down his spine.

It’s been more like an hour and a half before there’s a soft knock at the door and Derek freezes. He’s panting by now, flushed red down to his chest, heartbeat picking up in response to Stiles’ fast staccato on the other side of the door. Hazy though his mind’s becoming, he has the presence of mind to run a hand through his hair and wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow. He can’t even smell Stiles and his insides are already twisting, mouth watering.

The soft knock comes again and Derek jerks forward, crossing the living room in a few long steps. He exhales shakily before opening the door. Stiles is standing on the other side and he smiles at Derek, all long-legged ease, a backpack slung over his broad shoulders. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, and just the sound of his voice sends tremors down Derek’s spine. “I needed to grab some stuff.”

“That’s fine,” Derek says hoarsely, curling his hands against his thighs to keep himself from grabbing at Stiles. He probably looks like a fucking lunatic right now. “Come in.”

Stiles smiles slowly, stepping across the threshold - and right into Derek’s space, his hand rising to fist in the front of Derek’s shirt, tugging him in for a rough kiss, open-mouthed and filthy. Derek groans at the first touch of their mouths, Stiles’ scent filling his nose, lighting a fire under his skin. He presses forward, slipping his hands under Stiles’ hoodie, desperate for the touch of skin on skin. Stiles laughs, pulling back a little to say, “Whoa there, big guy. Just lemme - “ He shrugs off his backpack and unzips his hoodie, letting them fall to the floor with soft thumps. He looks at Derek, amber eyes sparkling. “Ready?”

“Waiting,” Derek says roughly and Stiles laughs, stepping forward to press their chests together, looping his arms around Derek’s neck. For a moment he just stands there, breathing softly against Derek’s neck; Derek bends his head, presses his nose to Stiles’ throat, inhales the crisp scent of him. The heat’s in full swing now, his dick hard against Stiles’ stomach, skin burning. He needs touch, he needs more - he makes a quiet noise when Stiles shifts, teeth delicately scraping against Derek’s throat before he murmurs, “You’re burning up, man, c’mon - where’s your bedroom?” His hand slips between them, long fingers flexing against the front of Derek’s pants and Derek groans into Stiles’ neck, hands digging into his hips. He manages to pry himself away, taking Stiles by the wrist and tugging him through the apartment to his room, bumping to a stop beside the bed.

Derek half expects Stiles to make some sort of comment like “Nice place you’ve got here,” but all he does is pull Derek back toward him, their mouths meeting hungrily, Stiles’ hands scrambling at his shirt. Derek steps back to help him, leaning forward so Stiles can tug it over his head.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, dropping Derek’s shirt to the floor. “Jesus fuck, you’re hot. Fuck.” He bends his head to lave his tongue across one of Derek’s nipples, mouth wet and warm and good. Derek hisses, arching into his touch. He’s hard, so wet his boxers are damp, and he wants. He reaches for Stiles, pulling at his shirt, wanting more skin, but Stiles ignores him, teeth digging down over a nipple before he drops to his knees, curling his fingers in the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants.

“No,” Derek croaks, tugging on Stiles’ shirt. Stiles looks up at him sharply, his pupils blown wide, and Derek manages to continue. “Not - your mouth. Fuck, I need your dick, please.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, his eyes widening. He scrambles upright, tugging off his shirt so violently he nearly overbalances. Derek catches him, his hands fizzling at the contact, and Stiles laughs giddily. “God, this is the best,” he says, hands fumbling with his belt. Derek follows suit, sliding his sweatpants off his hips. His head’s spinning; the room’s starting to smell like them - like them and sex. It’s intoxicating, makes his blood burn hotter.

“God,” Stiles moans, when Derek pushes down his boxers and frees his dick, flushed red and aching. Stiles kicks off his jeans, nearly tripping. “I am getting that in my mouth at some point.”

Derek doesn’t care about later; he cares about now. The cool air of the room, combined with the adrenaline coursing through him, has him shivering despite his heat, skin pebbling. Stiles steps near, his face shifting to one of concern. “You okay, man?” he asks softly, lifting his hands to cup the sides of Derek’s face. “Let’s warm you up,” he adds, voice dropping low as he presses in close, mashing their mouths together. Derek groans as their hips meet, his dick sliding against the trail of hair on Stiles’ stomach that disappears into his boxers, leaving streaks of precum shining on his skin. Derek grips at Stiles’ hips, hands sliding round to slip beneath the elastic band of his underwear, fingers digging into the soft swell of his ass. Stiles moans, his hips jolting forward, nails digging into the back of Derek’s neck. For a long, delicious moment they rut against each other, breath hitching as they trade kisses, which grow sloppier and sloppier as their movements grow more frantic. Stiles pulls back suddenly, his chest heaving.

“Dicks,” he says, and when Derek frowns at him, he gestures frantically and says, “My dick! In you! Right?”

Derek snorts. “Right.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “So. I just need to grab - ” He spins abruptly, darting out of the room. Derek listens to him skid down the hall, his feet slipping on the hardwood floors. Derek settles on the bed, one hand wrapped around himself - not stroking, just waiting. He hears Stiles smack into the wall, traction lost on the floor, his oof of lost air, and then he comes sprinting back in, holding his backpack. He pauses in the doorway, eyes going wide at Derek sitting back against the pillows, legs spread. “Fuck,” he says, cheeks flushing ruddy red.

“I’m waiting for it,” Derek says, a tad impatiently, and Stiles’ cheeks go even darker.

“Right,” he says hurriedly, and digs through his backpack until he comes up triumphant with a handful of condoms, which he tosses at Derek before quickly divesting himself of his boxers. Derek eyes his dick hungrily, nostrils flaring as another wave of pheromones hits him. Stiles isn’t all that big but he’s thick; Derek closes his eyes, body shuddering in anticipation of his knot. The bed dips next to him and he opens his eyes to watch Stiles industriously roll on a condom.

“Lube?” Stiles asks, his voice shaking. Derek shakes his head and Stiles’ eyes drop between his thighs, his mouth falling open when he sees how slick Derek is. “Fuck,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a curious finger against Derek’s hole, exhaling rapidly when he finds no resistance, his finger sliding in easily. Derek moans, hips jolting off the bed. This, this is what he wants, what he needs. “God, I want my mouth on this, too.”

“Later,” Derek growls, grinding down on Stiles’ finger pointedly.

Stiles looks up at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. He shifts himself around so that he’s kneeling between Derek’s thighs, wrapping one hand around the base of his dick as he lines himself up, the other hand hooked under Derek’s knee, pressing him forward. “Hey,” Stiles says gently, and there’s just a trace of alpha power in his voice, enough to make Derek relax completely. “Hey,” he says, “I’ve got you,” and he pushes into Derek in one long, smooth rush. Derek throws his head back, a helpless noise slipping between his lips as Stiles bottoms out, his thighs firm against Derek’s ass.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says in a tiny voice, exhaling shakily. “That okay?”

“Fuck me,” Derek demands breathlessly. They aren’t even moving yet and he’s panting, sweat pooling at the base of his throat and the backs of his knees. Stiles’ hand slips and he shifts forward, dropping his hands to either side of Derek’s head as he begins to thrust. Derek’s eyes settle shut again, mouth falling open, lifting his legs to hook around Stiles’ narrow waist. Stiles isn’t quite coordinated, his rhythm too random to match the thrust of Derek’s hips but it doesn’t matter; Derek’s already close. All he needs is that little push -

“Fuuuck,” he moans, back arching when he comes untouched, spilling white across his stomach.

“Damn,” Stiles hisses, bending his head to lick at Derek’s throat. Derek tilts his head back, head fuzzy from orgasm but instinct telling him to submit - accept me, accept me - and his alpha does, scraping his teeth against Derek’s throat. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous, fuck - ”

Stiles’ knot’s starting to grow; Derek can feel the swell of it brushing against his rim with every thrust and his body sings because he did that, his alpha’s knot is for him. Stiles shudders as he pushes inside one last time, mouth open in a soft groan as he begins to come. Derek rubs a hand down his spine, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck. He hasn’t spent his heat with many men, but the comedown from orgasm is his favorite part, when the next round of heat hasn’t hit yet and he can just indulge. Derek doesn’t let very many people see the soft parts of him, the inherently omega pieces of himself he usually keeps wrapped inside.

Slowly, Stiles’ breathing evens out and he drops to his elbows, dragging his nose along Derek’s damp hairline.

“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, tilting his head to brush his lips against Stiles’ cheek.

“Just getting started, big guy,” Stiles replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “You - oh, man!”

“What?” Derek asks, caught off-guard by the dismay in his voice.

“My backpack’s at the end of the bed,” Stiles says. “I brought water and granola.”

“Kind of you,” Derek says, the corners of his mouth quirking up. It really is; none of his past heat partners have ever been so thoughtful.

“You’ve got muscles,” Stiles grins down at him. “You think you can shuffle us around?”

It takes some effort, but Derek gets them there eventually, turning them far enough that Stiles can stretch over the foot of the bed and rustle around in his backpack until he produces a bottle of water, which he carefully offers Derek first. Next comes a bag of maple-walnut granola, which he happily feeds Derek, eyes crinkling at the way Derek licks his fingers.

“So,” Stiles says after they’re done snacking, dropping the empty bottle and bag over the end of the bed. “How long do your heats usually last?”

“Couple of days,” Derek replies quietly, absently dragging his fingers through Stiles’ soft brown hair. His head’s beginning to grow foggy; he’ll sleep soon, he knows, and the heat will be back when he wakes, stronger than before. “First round’s the easiest. I won’t be this lucid in a couple of hours.”

“That’s okay,” Stiles says earnestly, pressing his toes against Derek’s calves. “I’ll take care of you.”

And the funny thing is, Derek thinks as he drifts to sleep, Stiles a comforting weight on top of him - he believes it.

-

It’s the best heat Derek’s ever had - not that he’s had many good ones to compare against - but for the first time, he has fun. There’s still the pressing, burning need to be filled and taken care of, a need Stiles fills admirably, but Derek’s more lucid than he usually is, and he notices things. Stiles laughs all the time. He makes terrible jokes. He notices every time Derek’s heat starts getting unbearable and wrings orgasms out of him with ease. He’s bright and cheerful and loud and everything Derek usually hates, and maybe it’s the heat making him soft, but Derek enjoys himself. He’s starting to think Laura was right; maybe he should start finding partners for every heat.

Derek wakes on the third morning with his head clear and knows, with a certain disappointing certainty, that his heat’s left him. The bed’s empty next to him, but the spot where Stiles was laying is still warm and Derek can hear him moving around in the kitchen, humming to himself. Derek allows himself to lounge in bed a few minutes longer; he knows he’ll have to back to work today but for the first time ever, he wishes his heat had lasted a few days longer. He’d be glad to take Stiles’ knot, let himself be pinned to the bed by Stiles’ weight, keep his mouth on Stiles’ sweet skin.

Eventually he sighs, reaching for his phone. He’s got few messages - a couple updates from Erica about the shop, photos of South America from Cora, a text from a few minutes ago from Laura: is ur heat done? how was it? :)

amazing, Derek texts back, unable to stop himself from smiling.

im so proud of you!!! Laura replies almost immediately. im coming over later & ur gonna tell me all abt him

fine, Derek shoots back, for once not even irritated about his sister’s prying into his personal life. He sets his phone aside and forces himself to get out of bed as the scent of bacon wafts into his room. Derek tugs on a clean pair of sweatpants and wanders into the kitchen, where Stiles is standing at the stove.

“What are you doing?” Derek murmurs, pressing up against his back.

“Hey,” Stiles says brightly, turning his head to brush his nose against Derek’s jaw. “Thought I’d make us some breakfast before I head out.”

“Mm,” Derek hums, his hands drifting down the front of Stiles’ jeans. “Sure you can’t stay?”

“Wish I could,” Stiles sighs. “I’ve got to get back to school, though. Gotta keep my grades up if I want to get into college.”

Derek freezes with the tips of his fingers just under the waistband of Stiles’ boxers. “You mean stay in college,” he says slowly. It feels like there’s a weight growing at the pit of his stomach, heavy and ice-cold.

“No,” Stiles says, turning to frown at him. “I’m - ”

Derek’s already scrambling backward, so fast he smacks into the kitchen counter. “You’re in fucking high school?”

“I thought you knew - ”

“I thought you were at least nineteen!” Derek snarls.

“I’m eighteen!” Stiles protests, then winces and adds, “In two months.”

For a moment, all Derek can do is stare at him, his body flooding with anger and hurt. Then he points toward the front door and growls, “Out.”

Stiles’ face falls. “Derek, come on - ”

“Get the fuck out!” Derek roars.

Stiles shuts his mouth, his cheeks flushing that splotchy red. He steps away from the stove and brushes past Derek silently, bending to scoop his backpack off the floor. Derek follows at a distance, glaring at him as he pauses by the door.

“I had a really good time,” Stiles tells him quietly, and Derek feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He doesn’t say a word as Stiles steps out the door and shuts it softly behind him. He manages to wait until Stiles’ footsteps have died off down the hall and then he twists around, staggering into the bathroom to vomit what little there is in his stomach into the toilet. He kneels there for a while, body shaking, until the smell of smoke alerts him to the fact that the stove’s still on. He has to stagger back into the kitchen and dump the pans into the sink and just thinking about how Stiles had been standing there, so fucking casual while he made them breakfast, makes him gag again.

Why the fuck wouldn’t Stiles have said anything? But then, that’s obvious - he must have known that if Derek knew how old he was, Derek wouldn’t have touched him. “Fuck,” Derek groans. He should have known. He should have known that Stiles was too good to be true. He remembers how amazing Stiles felt inside him, how good Derek felt underneath him, and part of him wants to cry. The other part is furious, furious at himself for getting his hopes up, and at Stiles for letting this happen. (And true, some of this may be his fault for just assuming that Stiles was old enough, but he never had a reason to suspect Stiles might be too young. Derek is pretty sure you have to check something off saying you’re eighteen when you post on Craigslist and so the misrepresentation is just - just unfair.)

“Fuck this,” Derek declares angrily. He abandons the smoldering dishes and storms into his room, holding his breath so he can’t smell the combined scent of their sex, and snatches his phone up off his nightstand. He shoots off a brief text to Erica - not coming back until tomorrow - then stomps into the bathroom. He takes a quick shower, violently scrubbing his body clean of any trace of Stiles, angrily cleaning his stomach of all the fucking dried jizz.

Clean, Derek heads into the living room and collapses on the couch, drawing all the blankets around him in a protective nest. He takes an anger nap, which is his preferred way of dealing with his problems - sleep it off, and sometimes the problem will have gone away, or at least his anger will have faded to a point where he can deal with it. Derek suspects that his anger in this case is not going to dissipate too easily, but at least he won’t be awake to suffer through it.

-

Derek’s awoken sometime much later by the sound of keys in the door and he wonders for the millionth time why he thought it’d be a good idea to give Laura keys, but he’s too tired to try and stop her. His anger has diminished, sunk into a bone-deep hurt. This is what he gets for trusting people.

“Hey Der,” Laura says cheerfully, striding right past him and opening a window. “It smells like a sex dungeon in here.”

He doesn’t answer and she turns, the smile fading from her face when she notices him on the couch, covered in blankets. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Heat withdrawal?”

Derek shakes his head, numb. “He was seventeen, Lo,” he tells her miserably. “He was fucking seventeen and I didn’t find out until this morning.”

Laura puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes going wide. “Oh, Der,” she whispers. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Derek agrees unhappily. He digs the heel of his palms into his eyes. “And he was so fucking good, Lo, that’s the worst part.”

Laura moves, dropping down onto the couch next to him. “What did he have to say about it?”

“He said he thought I knew,” Derek says bitterly. “Like fuck I did. It’s not like we spent our time talking.”

Laura clicks her tongue, disgusted. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Derek says violently. “I kicked him out and I’m never going to think about it again.”

Laura sighs, curling a comforting hand around his ankle. “I’m sorry, Der. This is my fault. If I hadn’t pestered you about finding someone - ”

“It’s not,” Derek sighs. “I should have asked, and I didn’t.”

Laura gives him a tentative smile. “At least now you know for next time - ”

“No,” Derek says bluntly. “There’s not going to be a next time.”

“Der,” Laura says, a little exasperated. “Don’t let this ruin things for you.”

Derek laughs bitterly. “It’s just the nail in the coffin, Lo. My heats suck whether I’m alone or with someone, so there’s no point in dragging someone else into my misery.”

“Don’t be like that,” she says. “You’re going to find someone someday.”

Derek grunts, flipping onto his side. “I’m not in the mood for this,” he says.

“Fine,” Laura says, throwing up her hands. She gets to her feet. “I’m leaving, then.”

“Sorry,” Derek mutters.

She leans forward, pressing a kiss to his brow. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Derek looks up at her, his stomach twisting. “Can you open the window in my room?”

Laura’s mouth tightens but she nods and disappears. Derek can hear her pushing open the window in his bedroom, then cloth moving. “Only once will I wash your jizz-covered sheets,” she announces a moment later, voice carrying down the hall. “You owe me.”

“I’ll name a collection after your firstborn child!” Derek calls back.

“Make it the second!” Laura hollers, moving into the bathroom to jam his sheets in the washing machine. “The first’s going to be a loser like their uncle!”

“Favorite uncle,” Derek grumbles. Laura reappears, leaning over the back of the couch.

“Favorite,” she agrees gently. “Text me later, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek murmurs, and she breezes out of the apartment, leaving him alone, the gentle hum of the washing machine filling the silence. Derek shudders faintly and pulls the blankets back up over his shoulders, closing his eyes against the world.

Despite what he told Laura, Derek can’t erase Stiles from his mind. Memories of his heat keep springing to his mind unbidden - kneeling on the floor while Stiles jerks off onto his face, trapped on his stomach under Stiles’ weight while Stiles plays a game on his phone, Stiles’ mouth on his ass, rimming him until Derek comes untouched and Stiles looks at him with a grin, his mouth and chin slick and shiny - and with every memory Derek’s stomach twists, feeling dirty and miserable at the way his body jumps with arousal.

He gets up eventually, eats a salad for dinner, scrapes the burnt memory of breakfast into the trash and washes the dishes. He looks at his phone - pictures from Laura of her dog, and several emails from Stiles. Derek deletes them without opening them. He’s not interested in what Stiles has to say. He moves his sheets from the washer to the dryer and watches the evening news and tries to ignore the roiling guilt and anger bubbling beneath his skin.

He hates Stiles for making him feel so good, so wanted, so cared for. Hates himself for opening to him, for being so soft. He hates that they had fun together, that he wants more even now, even though he knows he can’t have him. He just - he hadn’t seen it. Sure, Stiles was young, but he was confident - even if his sexual prowess wasn’t especially refined, he was sure of himself and his body. Derek couldn’t remember the last time he was so confident in himself - not since he was a teenager, before his dad died, before Kate. He hates himself for thinking that, for once, things might be different.

Derek sleeps on clean sheets that night, but the room still smells like him and Stiles; the mattress is soaked with their combined scents, the pillows saturated. Derek almost gives up and goes to sleep on the couch, but he has to stay or else Stiles’ scent will never fade. His body reacts without his consent, dick stiff and painful, but Derek refuses to give in.

Punishment, he thinks, for touching a body he never should have touched.

-

Derek takes a different route to work the next day. He’s not sure if the morning Stiles grabbed him happened by chance, or if Stiles takes the same route to school every day, but he’s not risking the possibility of running into him again. It works out well; he discovers an unfamiliar coffee shop on his new route and their morning pastry selection is amazing. He gets an assorted box and drops it in the staff room; just because he’s miserable doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.

Building furniture requires precision and attention - exactly what Derek needs to take his mind off Stiles. He abandons his designs for the day and joins Stan on the assembly line; they’re working on a walnut version of the Sundog Couch for a client out in Colorado and Derek spends the day shaping the gentle curve of the backrest while Stan builds the base. The constant rasp of the plane against the wood soothes him, lulling Derek into a zen-like state where he’s not worried about all the felonies he committed over the past few days, focused only on perfecting the curve beneath his hands.

“You’ve got a better eye than than your father,” Stan says admiringly, when they break for lunch.

Derek shrugs, not convinced. The shop belonged to his dad; most of their best-selling designs are his father’s creations. His craft may be better, but his dad had an eye for form Derek envies.

He goes over to Laura’s for dinner and they carefully don’t talk about his heat. The only time it gets mentioned is while they’re eating and Derek abruptly says, “Don’t tell Mom,” and Laura shakes her head. “I’m not telling anyone,” she assures him, and that’s that. They play Mario Kart after dinner and Derek knows Laura lets him win.

Misery’s eating at his bones by the time he gets home but he shoves it down, takes a long shower, gets into bed. He checks his phone; there’s nothing from Stiles and he sighs in relief. It’s over.

-

Two days later, Derek’s putting away groceries when there’s a knock on the door. He goes to answer it, half-distracted by a text from Laura, but stops short when he recognizes the heartbeat on the other side of the door, his mouth going dry.

“Derek?” Stiles says softly, and just the sound of his voice has Derek’s stomach twisting, remembering Stiles groaning his name - Come on, Derek, come for me, I’ve got you. He sways, bewildered by the combined arousal and fury burning in his chest. “Derek?” Stiles repeats, almost a whisper. “Can we talk, please?”

Derek wants to open the door. He wants to yell at Stiles, bellow out his anger, shove his hands against his chest. He wants to kiss him, bite his throat - but no. He’s not going to engage at all, because if he opens that door and gets a taste of that sharp scent again, he knows he’ll be lost. So he does nothing, just stands there and listens to Stiles breathing on the other side. After a long time - minutes, maybe, or hours - Stiles says, “Okay,” very quietly, and his footsteps retreat down the hall. Derek doesn’t move for a long, long time.

-

Stiles comes back the next day, early in the morning, as Derek’s getting ready for work. Derek doesn’t even get up from the table when he knocks, even if his scrambled eggs turn to ash in his mouth. He scowls down at his phone, waits for Stiles to leave, and it’s half an hour before he does. Derek’s late for work again. He hates Stiles.

-

Stiles doesn’t knock the next day but he’s there in the hallway, silent. Derek can just hear his heartbeat at the edge of his hearing range. He turns up the tv.

-

After three days of sitting out in the hallway silently, Stiles changes his tactics. He starts singing, loud and raucous - the most irritating songs he seems to be able to come up with, perennial favorites like “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” “This Is The Song That Never Ends,” and, strangely, “A Horse With No Name.” Derek’s even more irritated to find himself humming along once in a while, though he stops abruptly when he hears Stiles yell, “I can hear you!”

He’s supposed to go to Laura’s for dinner but there’s no way he’s leaving the apartment now.

-

Stiles is out there again the next morning - or he never left, which seems like a strong possibility, and the moment he hears Derek beginning to move around the apartment, he starts bellowing out “Piano Man,” impossibly loud and off-key. Derek winces, then winces again when he hears the door across the hall open and his neighbor snap, “Kid, shut the fuck up before I call the cops!”

“Sorry,” Stiles say brightly. “But my kinda-boyfriend won’t open the door!”

Derek’s slicing a tomato for his sandwich and he nearly cuts his thumb off. That fucking does it. “I am not your boyfriend!” he yells.

“That’s why I said kinda!” Stiles hollers back.

“Just because we fu - ” Derek cuts himself off, biting down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He drops the knife, storms over to the door, yanks it open. Stiles is sitting on the hallway floor, his back to the wall, and Derek’s neighbor Mark’s standing at his door, looking pissed. “Get the fuck in here,” Derek snarls at Stiles, who scrambles to his feet and darts inside past him. Derek looks at Mark. “Sorry about him.”

“I don’t envy you in the slightest,” Mark tells him, and slams his door behind him. It takes Derek a lot of restraint not to do the same.

When he turns around, Stiles is right there behind him, a wide grin on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but Derek gets there first, growling, “Get the fuck away from me.” He can’t handle it - Stiles is right there in front of him, his crisp scent turning Derek’s insides to liquid. He needs to be about a hundred miles away right now, not two feet from the teenager who fucked him.

For a moment, Stiles doesn’t look like he’s going to move. Derek can tell - knows from experience, now - that Stiles is a stubborn little shit, so he’s actually a little surprised when Stiles takes a few steps backward. It doesn’t help much; Derek still wants to simultaneously shake him and suck his dick.

“Look,” Stiles tries, but Derek interrupts him again.

“I don’t care,” he snaps, all his carefully contained fury boiling over. “I don’t give a fuck what you have to say. Stay away from me. Come to my door again and I’m calling the cops.”

Stiles’ face goes mulish. “And tell them what?” he challenges. “That your underage boyfriend won’t leave you alone?”

“Are you threatening me?” Derek snarls, and Stiles blinks, his face going red.

“Shit, no,” he says hurriedly, stumbling over his words in his haste to get them out. “That’s not what I - I’m sorry, okay? Sometimes my mouth starts moving before I’ve really thought about what I’m saying.”

“Oh?” Derek asks coldly. “And where was your mouth last week when you should have told me you were seventeen?”

Stiles opens his mouth and then shuts it and Derek just bets he’s fighting against the urge to say something like “On your dick.” Instead, after a moment he carefully says, “I fucked up. I know that, okay? I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you or anything - it just never occurred to me to bring it up, honest. I didn’t think it’d matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Derek says, exasperated. “Now I’m a fucking criminal. If I get arrested - ”

“You won’t,” Stiles says earnestly. “I told my dad about you.”

Derek freezes as he parses through this statement. It takes a moment to sink in. “Your dad’s a cop?”

“Sheriff,” Stiles corrects.

Derek groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why the hell would you tell him?”

“Dude, I couldn’t just disappear for like three days without him knowing why,” Stiles protests.

“You could have lied.”

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s not how me and my dad operate.” He shuffles his feet and looks at Derek plaintively. “He’s not going to arrest you, I promise.”

Derek doesn’t really believe him, but he needs to get to work so he sighs, “Fine, well, thanks for stopping by - ”

“Come on, that’s it?” Stiles interrupts. Derek frowns at him and Stiles looks a little sheepish, his cheeks going pink. “I thought we could keep on doing what we were doing,” he mutters.

“No,” Derek says bluntly. “We can’t.”

A sneaky expression passes over Stiles’ face. “But you want to, right? We had fun, didn’t we?”

Derek bites down on his tongue. Of course he fucking enjoyed it. Even now, his feet keep trying to carry him closer to Stiles; all he wants to do is bury his face against Stiles’ skin, inhale that tart, herbal scent of his. But he can’t. “You’re seventeen,” he tells Stiles, tone more gentle than he’s currently feeling. “I can’t.”

Stiles’ face falls, and Derek doesn’t know why he feels guilty for disappointing him.

“You need to stop coming here,” Derek says to him, and Stiles looks down at his feet, face red and unhappy. Derek steps back to the door and pulls it open meaningfully, not trusting himself to say anything more. Stiles hesitates for a moment and then walks past him. Derek holds his breath as Stiles passes, refusing to give into the temptation to lean into his space and breathe. He’s seventeen, he tells himself as Stiles crosses the threshold and disappears down the hallway. Seventeen.

-

“Something’s on your mind,” Laura says at dinner that night.

Derek stabs moodily at his quinoa before he says, “Stiles has been hanging around my building.”

Laura raises her eyebrows. “That’s the kid you spent your heat with?”

Derek flinches at the word kid but nods. “I told him off this morning.”

Laura watches him for a moment, her brow furrowed. “But you’re not happy about it.” Derek hates how perceptive she is. She tilts her head to one side. “What is it about him that’s gotten under your skin?”

Derek shakes his head. “I just don’t understand why he wants me,” he says. “I mean - he must know people his own age, right?”

Laura shrugs. “Attraction doesn’t work like that, Der. You know what happened with Mom and Dad.”

Derek nods, his mouth tightening. Their mom had been engaged to another man, just weeks away from getting married when she’d met their father. In a matter of days, she’d canceled her wedding plans, moved in with their dad, and Laura had been born less than a year later. Derek had asked her, once, why she hadn’t gotten married to the other guy and his mom had smiled and said, “Sometimes you just know.” He doesn’t think that’s the case with him - just that Stiles is different than anyone’s he’s ever spent his heat with - different and better, and now that he knows his heat can be enjoyable, he wants more.

“What are you going to do?” Laura asks softly.

“I told him he can’t keep coming by,” Derek shrugs.

Laura eyes him for a moment, her eyes sparkling. “You think that’s going to stop things?”

Derek frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

Laura laughs. “It kind of seems like he’s fixated on you, little brother. I think you’ve got yourself a suitor.”

Derek groans, shoving his plate away. This is not happening.

-

Derek doesn’t see Stiles for a couple days - he doesn’t come to the apartment and he’s nowhere to be seen on the street. He’s just starting to relax, convinced Laura was wrong, when Stiles shows up at the coffee shop Derek found on his new route to work. He doesn’t notice at first, gazing absently up at the drink menu as he waits in line. It’s not until someone leaving the shop closes the door particularly hard, jolting him out of his daze, that he picks up the sound of a very familiar heartbeat. Derek freezes, cursing internally as he very slowly turns his head and catches sight of Stiles two people behind him in line. Stiles doesn’t seem to have noticed him, his eyes on his phone, but Derek whips his head back to the front, his jaw tightening.

He really should just leave, preferably before Stiles notices he’s there, but he’s angry. This is his place, his routine. He’s not going to rearrange his life because some teenager doesn’t know the meaning of leave me alone. So when it’s his turn at the counter, he orders his usual latte and then shuffles down the bar to wait, determinedly looking everywhere but in Stiles’ direction. He thinks he’s succeeded; Derek can see the barista snapping the lid onto the cup with Derek scrawled on the side, when someone steps up next to him and he gets a noseful of Stiles’ lemon-cotton scent. He resolutely does not look at Stiles, but it doesn’t matter because Stiles cheerfully says, “Hey!”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He takes his latte as it’s set on the counter and turns on his heel. To his frustration, Stiles follows, trotting along beside him like a long-legged puppy. Derek flashes back to last week, Stiles naked on his bed, those long limbs splayed everywhere, and nearly trips. Today is not a good day.

“You all right, man?” Stiles asks brightly as they step out onto the street.

“Did nothing I said to you stick?” Derek snaps in reply.

“Sure,” Stiles says easily. “But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”

Derek stops short, anger surging in him. “I am not some fucking conquest!” he snarls at Stiles, who takes a startled step backward, his eyes going wide.

“That’s not - I just - ”

“I am sick of alphas who think I owe them something,” Derek says furiously. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

He storms off down the block, leaving Stiles staring after him, his eyes huge and round.

-

Two days later, Derek is at the library looking through some art books for inspiration when he hears Stiles’ distinctive laugh. He looks around sharply; he’s in a dark corner in the nonfiction section so he doesn’t think it’s directed at him, but he also can’t help the visceral reaction he has hearing Stiles laugh, remembering Stiles laughing when their foreheads smacked together after a particularly enthusiastic thrust of his hips. Derek had laughed too. He feels sick at the memory.

Derek bends a little, peering through the bookshelves. Stiles is just settling down at a table out by the biography section, swinging his familiar backpack off his shoulders. He’s with another kid, shorter and more muscular than Stiles, tanned skin and darker hair. A friend, Derek thinks, watching Stiles grin at the kid across the table. He can just hear their conversation, voices pitched low so as not to catch the ire of the librarians, something about their chemistry teacher and how much he sucks. It drives home to Derek that he fucked a kid; he graduated college two years ago and Stiles isn’t even out of high school yet, and he’s about to turn back to his book when Stiles’ friend - Scott, Stiles called him - leans forward and says conspiratorially, “Any news from that guy?”

Derek freezes, watching Stiles’ face fall. “No,” Stiles admits, scribbling absently on a piece of a paper. “I was hoping he might have, I don’t know, changed his mind. But I’m pretty sure he just hates me for real now.”

“Dude, he’s nuts if he doesn’t want you,” Scott says loyally, and Stiles smiles without any real enthusiasm. Derek straightens, unable to watch the unhappiness on his face any longer. Maybe he was wrong, Derek thinks, quietly sliding the book in his hands back onto the shelf. Maybe he’s not just a conquest to Stiles, but that doesn’t make things any better. If anything, knowing Stiles wants him just makes things worse because Derek wants him too, and he can’t have him.

Derek chances another quick look through the shelves; Stiles is nodding tiredly at something Scott’s saying, rubbing a hand against his eye. “Fuck my life,” Derek mutters, because all he wants to do is curl up in bed with him, kiss the weariness from his face.

He lurks there for another fifteen minutes, alternating stealing glances at Stiles and pretending to look at books. He gets a different picture of Stiles this way, unaware Derek’s around. He’s not trying, no enthusiasm in him like all through Derek’s heat and the times he showed up after that. He’s antsy and distracted, tapping his fingers against the table, jiggling his leg without pause, eyes flicking around the room at any and all motion.

Finally, Derek can’t take it any longer and he leaves, even though the only door’s at the front of the room, which means he has to leave the cover of the shelves. Stiles notices him immediately and Derek very deliberately doesn’t look over at him, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Stiles’ face go horrified and bright pink and Scott says, “What’s wrong?” Derek doesn’t stick around to hear Stiles answer; he pushes through the doors and heads for home.

-

The next day, Stiles is waiting outside the coffee shop when Derek steps out, latte in hand. He’s pale, cheeks flushed, fingers twisting anxiously in his shirt, and he hesitates when he sees Derek, which is enough for Derek to take pity on him and give him an inquiring look.

“Um, hi,” Stiles says, then stops. Derek waits and Stiles bites down on his lip before continuing, “Look, I’m sorry about the other day. I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I’m not - this isn’t about me being an alpha. I just…” He sighs, scratching a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop bothering you.”

Derek watches him for a long moment, his stomach twisting when he realizes Stiles leaving him alone is the last thing he wants. He swallows. “Walk with me?” he offers, and his stomach twists again at the way Stiles’ eyes light up.

They walk down the street in silence; Derek’s not quite sure what to say, and Stiles doesn’t seem to want to push his luck. They get to the end of the block before Derek sighs and says, “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Stiles is quiet for a few steps before he says, “Is it really like that for you? Alphas thinking you owe them something?”

Derek shrugs, his mouth turning downward. “It’s happened before.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters.

Derek looks at him, neutral expression steady. “I don’t think you’re like that,” he tells Stiles. “I was just frustrated.”

“At me,” Stiles supplies with a sigh. “Happens a lot. Dad says it’s a wonder I don’t get punched more often.”

Derek snorts quietly and they walk in silence for another few yards.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says suddenly, speaking fast, “if you don’t want to see me again. I promise I’ll leave you alone after this. I just - I just wanted to tell you that I had a really good time when I was with you, and I don’t regret it.”

Derek’s quiet, feet slowing as they reach his shop. Stiles stops walking when Derek does, fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. “Stiles,” he says gently, and Stiles looks at him quickly, his brow furrowing faintly. “I don’t regret it either.”

Stiles’ smile then is as bright as the sun and something inside Derek tightens in satisfaction.

“I have to go,” he tells Stiles, gesturing toward the shop. He needs to, before he does something stupid.

Stiles’ eyes follow Derek’s hand. He’s still smiling. “You work here?”

“I own it,” Derek tells him, a little shyly.

Stiles’ eyes widen as he takes in the sign above the door - Hale Design Company. “You’re Hale?”

Derek nods, smiling faintly. “That’s me.”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles says thoughtfully, and his smile widens. He looks around the street, which is mostly empty, and then darts forward, planting a quick kiss on Derek’s cheek. “See you around,” he says, and dashes off down the street before Derek can get a word out. Derek’s left standing there staring after him, a dazed smile lighting his face.

“Who was that?” Erica asks as soon as Derek steps into the shop.

“Nobody,” Derek grumbles, his smile disappearing.

She cackles delightedly. “Oh, that kind of nobody, huh?”

Derek glares at her and escapes to the production floor and the safety of his studio, where he remains for the rest of the day, soothed by the sound of the machinery. He tries not to dwell on thoughts of Stiles but his resolution is crumbling rapidly. That night when he gets home, he jerks off for the first time since his heat and it’s the first time he lets himself sink back into those memories of himself and Stiles together during those few days without any guilt. The guilt comes later, after he comes so hard his back bows. Seventeen, he reminds himself as he washes his hands, but it doesn’t sound as terrible as it did a couple of days ago. Derek makes a face at himself in the mirror.

He is so fucked.

-

“I dunno, Der,” Laura says the following evening, bending to check on the chicken roasting in the oven. “If you guys both want each other, and his dad’s not going to arrest you for it, why not go for it? I mean, yeah, the age difference is a little weird, but in twenty years it’s not going to seem bad at all.”

Derek frowns at her as he mixes greens for a salad. “It’s just...the principle of it,” he says, kind of lamely, and Laura reaches over to flick him in the forehead.

“You’re overthinking it,” she tells him. “Just have some fun; God knows you need it.”

Derek scowls. “I know how to have fun.”

Laura laughs. “Making furniture is your job, Der. You should have other interests. I think it’d be good for you to have a little youth around.”

Derek’s still not convinced. Laura nudges him. “Have you heard from him since yesterday?”

Derek shakes his head. He doesn’t have Stiles’ number - no way to get in touch with him, in fact, except via the email they’d first used to communicate, and he doesn’t exactly know what to say. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he’s had to make an effort with someone.

Laura’s just pulling the chicken out of the oven when there’s a knock on the front door. She straightens quickly, leveling Derek with a manic grin. Your boy, she mouths, and Derek gives her a look of warning before he moves over to the door.

Stiles is standing out in the hall looking a little nervous, clutching at the straps of his ubiquitous backpack. “Hey,” he says. “Um. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was just thinking, uh, if you were free, maybe we could watch a movie. Or something.”

“Sorry,” Derek tells him, truly regretful. “I’m having dinner with my - ”

“Hey there, jailbait!” Laura says brightly, forcing the door open the rest of the way so she can see around Derek. Stiles stares at Laura, splotches of color appearing on his cheeks and Derek can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Laura’s an alpha - her scent’s all over Derek. Stiles is going to think - “Wrong!” Laura says cheerfully, coming to the same conclusion. “I’m Derek’s sister.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, a little tension seeping from his shoulders. “Hi.” His eyes move back to Derek. “Well, um. You’re busy, so I’ll just - ”

“Oh, no,” Laura says, latching onto Stiles’ arm and tugging him into the apartment. “You can take my place. I see enough of Derek’s ugly mug as it is. Dinner’s all ready to go. You guys enjoy it.”

Stiles looks at Derek, eager and nervous. “Is that - would that be okay?”

Laura gives Derek a pointed look over Stiles’ shoulder and he nods, biting back a smile. Laura and Stiles both beam at him. Laura grabs her coat and purse, gives Derek a quick kiss on the cheek and a “Dinner at Mom’s on Sunday, okay?” and is out the door in less than ten seconds.

Derek exhales slowly. “That was Laura,” he tells Stiles, who smiles faintly.

“She looks like you.” Stiles looks around, his nostrils flaring. “Smells good.”

“You hungry?” Derek asks, heading back into the kitchen.

“Always,” Stiles says, grinning. Derek smiles, piling the chicken onto a plate, then presses the plate into Stiles’ hands.

“Table,” he instructs, following behind with the salad and a bowl of dinner rolls.

“Do you guys always do dinner like this?” Stiles asks curiously, setting the plate on the table and sliding into a chair.

“A couple times a week,” Derek replies, sitting down next to him because fuck it, he wants to be close. Stiles seems to notice because he leans toward Derek a little, smiling. “Both of us would probably starve, otherwise.”

“I’m jealous,” Stiles tells him. “I’m in charge of food because my dad would just order out if it was left to him, but my dinners never look this nice.”

“It’s not hard,” Derek says, and hesitates before he offers, “I can teach you.”

There’s a lot more to that offer than just teaching Stiles how to cook, because it means Derek wants him around - more, a lot more. Stiles’ smile this time is softer, tentative, when he says, “I’d like that.”

Derek had been worried that the dinner would be awkward; despite the fact that they spent three days sleeping with each other, they’re still pretty much strangers - it’s not like they spent much of that time together talking. Derek knows that he’s a different person, too, during his heat - it makes him softer, more expressive - and he knows that outside his heat, he can come off as a closed-off asshole. Making conversation is hard for him, but Stiles somehow makes it easy; he asks question after question but it doesn’t seem like it’s for the sake of filling silence - he’s truly curious, and takes in every word Derek says.

Seventeen, Derek reminds himself almost experimentally, and his gut doesn’t even twist anymore. He wonders if Laura was right. Just go for it.

They move into the living room after eating; Stiles pulls out his backpack and rummages around in it before straightening, a DVD in his hands. “I brought Pacific Rim,” he tells Derek. “You seen it?”

Derek shakes his head and Stiles grins excitedly, leaping up to put the DVD in the player. Derek watches him, eyes slightly narrowed; Stiles seems familiar with his system and, like he knows he’s being watched, Stiles casts him a semi-guilty grin over his shoulder. “I may have watched some movies while you were sleeping.”

Derek snorts. “Sure. Did you go snooping through all my things, too?”

Stiles’ grin widens. “Only your kitchen cabinets,” he says. “You can learn a lot about a man by what he’s got in his kitchen.”

Derek raises his eyebrows as Stiles comes back to the couch, dropping down on it like a rock. “And?”

“Nice range of spices,” Stiles says, thinking it over. “And I found your secret stash of chocolate.”

“I live alone,” Derek retorts, rolling his eyes. “It’s not secret.”

Stiles grins at him, but doesn’t say anything more as the movie begins to play on screen. He’s at the opposite end of the couch as Derek, knees drawn to his chest, but as the movie wears on, Stiles, trying and failing to be at all stealthy, shuffles an inch or two closer every few minutes. By the time Raleigh and Mako fail their test run, Stiles is halfway up the couch.

“You’re not sneaky at all,” Derek sighs, reaching over to grab his arm, yanking him across his legs.

Stiles grins up at him. “Maybe this is what I wanted.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “And was it?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly, reaching up to trail his fingers along Derek’s jaw. Derek huffs, his eyes returning to the screen, though something relaxes in his chest, like a knot that’s been pulled loose. He lets his hand land in Stiles’ hair, running his fingers through the soft strands over and over. He doesn’t know he ended up here - he tried to resist it, resist Stiles - but somehow here he is, running his hands through the hair of the first person he’s ever wanted to stick around after a heat. And while he’s never been one to submit to traditional alpha-beta-omega roles, he can’t help but feel a warmth in his heart at how content Stiles smells. His alpha.

Stiles is half-asleep by the time the movie ends - and Derek is too, his hand moving automatically through Stiles’ hair, caught in a pattern. Stiles rolls onto his other side as the credits begin scrolling and Derek can feel his breath, warm against his stomach, when Stiles mumbles, “Can I stay?”

Yes, Derek wants to say, but he tries to be the responsible one. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles mutters, though he makes no effort to rise.

“Okay,” Derek says softly. “Just for a little while, then.” Stiles smiles sleepily, triumphantly. Derek leans forward, grabbing the remote so he can switch the tv back to cable, and settles in, one hand still smoothing through Stiles’ hair.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep but, in retrospect, Antiques Roadshow was not the most enthralling thing to choose, and he’d already seen the episode in question anyway. It’s still on when he wakes - the appraiser’s sadly telling an old woman her grandmother’s vase isn’t worth anything - and Stiles is asleep on his lap, his face pressed against Derek’s stomach. When he checks his phone, he finds it past midnight and curses softly.

“Stiles,” Derek says, shaking him gently. “You need to go.”

Stiles groans, the noise reverberating against Derek’s skin, and Derek tries not to shudder at the way it runs up his spine. “I don’t wanna,” Stiles complains, cracking one eye open to glare up at Derek. “You smell so good.”

Derek swallows, his cheeks heating up. “Come on,” he insists. “You need to get home. You’ve got school.”

Stiles pushes himself upright moodily, swinging his legs off the couch. He looks at his phone and groans again. “Fuck.”

“You okay to drive?” Derek asks, standing as Stiles does.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, bending to grab his backpack. Derek follows him out into the hall. Stiles stops by the door, turning to look at him. “Thanks for letting me crash your evening.”

“Any time,” Derek says without thinking, and finds he really means it. Stiles smiles at him and steps forward into his space, hands tugging at the front of his shirt. Derek swallows.

“I’ll see you around, then?” Stiles asks, his amber eyes bright. Derek nods and he isn’t at all surprised when Stiles leans forward to kiss him. This is it, Derek thinks, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting to let Stiles in. No going back.

Stiles pulls back after a while, but not far, his teeth catching on Derek’s bottom lip. “Caught ya,” he murmurs, looking pleased, and all Derek can do is bend his head in acknowledgement. He’s caught, all right - hook, line, and sinker.

-

After that night, Stiles is always around. He shows up at the coffee shop every morning like clockwork, so reliable that Derek learns his order and buys it for him; the surprise on Stiles’ face the first morning he shows up and Derek holds out his cup - mocha latte with an extra shot - is reward enough. Derek finds Stiles’ number entered into his phone under the contact name “O Alpha! My Alpha!” He shows up at the apartment at random times without warning, which in the past would have irritated Derek to no end, but for all that Stiles does drive him crazy sometimes, Derek likes him. Laura wonders if maybe Stiles is drugging him; Derek punches her in the arm.

It’s just...easy with Stiles. He flies into the apartment and flops down on the couch and tells Derek everything about his day - about classes, about lacrosse and his crazy coach and the douchebag captain of the team, Jackson, and about his best friend Scott, who everyone thought was a beta until he got his first heat and “now he’s like the best alpha I’ve ever seen, Derek, for real.” He crawls into Derek’s lap and nuzzles at his neck, long fingers digging into his shoulders. He’s a long-legged bundle of nervous energy, and everything about him is what Derek usually can’t stand in anyone, but with Stiles, he can’t get enough.

A week after their first movie night and all they’ve done is kiss but tonight Stiles is antsy, jiggling his leg up and down unceasingly as he sits at the dining table and works on his homework. Derek doesn’t mind the quiet; he’s got his laptop out, filling out an application for a furniture design competition - it’s the first time he’s tried entering one since college, but Cora’s collection is garnering a lot of positive reviews so he figures he might as well try. He can’t concentrate with Stiles’ constant motion, though, and slaps out a hand without even realizing it, trapping Stiles’ jiggly knee under his palm.

Stiles jolts at the touch, then looks up at Derek apologetically. “Sorry,” he says, sighing. “Antsy tonight.”

“You’re antsy all the time,” Derek tells him, and Stiles grins guiltily, his tongue flicking across his lips. Derek watches the movement, eyes darkening as he gets an idea. He gets to his feet and walks around to the back of Stiles’ chair, pulling him away from the table.

“Huh?” Stiles says, stretching to grab for his books, but Derek steps in his way. Stiles frowns up at him. “If you want me to go, you can just say so.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Derek replies, cupping Stiles’ cheek. “I want you to sit still.”

“Easier said than d - ” Stiles is cut off as Derek bends, pressing their mouths together. He tries to surge up, always eager, but Derek pushes him back down into the chair and sinks to his knees, kneeling on the hardwood floor. Stiles looks down at him, his mouth falling open.

“Let me take care of you,” Derek says, and Stiles nods fervently. Derek leans forward, delicately unbuckling Stiles’ belt, unzipping his pants. Stiles lifts his hips without being asked and Derek carefully pulls down his jeans, revealing a pair of bright red boxer-briefs. They’ve got the Superman logo on them and Derek flicks his gaze up to Stiles’s face, raising his eyebrows. Stiles goes pink.

“They’re comfortable, okay?” he says. Derek just grins, rubbing his hands up Stiles’ thighs before leaning in, dragging his nose along Stiles’ inner thigh, eyes closing. Stiles’ scent is thick down here, clean and strong and tinged heavily with arousal; it make his whole body throb in response. Stiles is already starting to tent in his pants; he groans quietly when Derek brushes his lips over his dick, mouthing at him through the thin cotton. He settles back on his heels, nodding at Stiles, and Stiles takes the hint, hurriedly lifting his hips once more so that Derek can peel off his underwear.

Derek likes Stiles like this. He’s in no rush, not like he was during his heat. Now he has the time to listen to every noise Stiles makes, the sweet way he smells, the way he moves. Derek licks his palm and curls his fingers around Stiles’ cock and Stiles swears, his hands clutching at the sides of the chair. He fits perfectly in Derek’s hand, thick and warm - Derek can’t help but shudder at the memory of Stiles inside him. He jerks Stiles slowly, carefully rubbing his thumb over the head as precome starts beading there, feeling him stiffen in Derek’s hand.

Derek looks up at Stiles, contemplative. “You promise your dad’s not going to arrest me, right?”

“P-promise,” Stiles says hoarsely. “Don’t talk about my dad right now.”

Derek grins darkly and leans forward, eyes on Stiles’ face as his tongue flicks out, catching a drop of precome. Stiles whines, his eyes going wide when Derek takes him into his mouth. Just the head, at first - and it’s all Derek can do not to come himself, drowning in the fucking taste of Stiles, soft and heavy on his tongue - but then he begins bobbing his head, lower and lower, hand slowly pumping what he can’t yet reach.

This is the first blowjob Derek’s given in a long time and god, he’s nearly salivating, lips slick, jaw burning at the stretch. It’s so fucking good - the taste, the smell, the sound of Stiles - he has to grind his free hand against his groin, groaning around Stiles’ length. Stiles’ hands brush his face, his shoulders, restless - Derek grabs him by the wrist and places one hand in his hair. Stiles takes the hint, his fingers curling against Derek’s scalp, just tight enough. His hips twist restlessly and Derek keeps an ear on his breathing, waiting for his little hitches of breath to quicken, little spurts of sound falling from his lips before Derek takes him deeper.

It aches a little, the stretch and lack of air making Derek’s eyes water, but it’s the best kind of ache. Stiles likes it, if the way his hand tightens in Derek’s hair is any sign. “Derek,” he hisses, plaintive. “Derek, please - ”

Derek pulls off of him slowly, licking his sloppy lips. “You going to come soon?” Stiles nods frantically, his dick pulsing in Derek’s hand. “Where do you want to come?”

Stiles stares at him, mouth falling open like he can’t believe his luck. “Uh - uh - face? Your face?”

Derek nods, tapping his hand against Stiles’ thigh. “Get up, then.”

Stiles stands, the chair scraping the floor behind him, and Derek settles beneath him, gazing up at him while he patiently jerks him off. He can tell when Stiles is about to come by the way his stomach muscles contract, the way he groans weakly, hands fluttering against the side of Derek’s head. Derek shuts his eyes and opens his mouth, groaning as Stiles’ come hits his skin, splashing down his cheek and over his lips.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispers. “Fuck, that’s so - jesus.”

Derek opens his eyes and smiles up at Stiles, lazily licking at his lips. He tugs Stiles’ jeans and underwear back up his thighs, carefully tucking Stiles back into his briefs as he gets to his feet.

“You’re a menace,” Stiles informs him, a little shakily.

“Finish your homework,” Derek replies lightly.

“Do you want me to - ” Stiles reaches for Derek’s pants but Derek moves away, shaking his head.

“Finish your homework,” he repeats and Stiles sits back down in his chair, looking a little disgruntled. Derek huffs out a quiet laugh, bending to press his lips to Stiles’ temple before heading for the bathroom. He pauses in there, looking at himself in the mirror, face streaked with the wet lines of Stiles’ orgasm. He looks debauched, lips red and swollen, hair tousled. He looks satisfied. He feels satisfied, some bone-deep instinct deeply pleased with his alpha’s contentment.

Derek pushes his pants down to his hips, taking himself in hand with a low noise. He jerks himself off quickly, without finesse, breathing fast between his teeth. He scrapes his thumb against his cheek, collecting a drop of come, and sucks it into his mouth, eyes closing at the taste of Stiles’ release. It’s not long before he comes himself, body going rigid as he spills over his fingers.

When he’s got his breath back, Derek washes his face and hands. He still smells like Stiles, though, and it settles something in his stomach, making him content, nearly purring as he pads back into the dining room and drops back into his chair. Stiles glances up at him briefly, a smile lifting his mouth before he turns his eyes back to his books. Derek watches him for a moment, satisfied to see his body’s gone loose, like Derek was able to suck some of the residual energy out of him.

Later, as Stiles gathers his things and gets ready to head home, he pauses to look at Derek thoughtfully. Derek raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Stiles flushes faintly. “I was just thinking,” he says, a little nervous. “Uh. My heat - I should be getting it the weekend after next and I was just wondering, uh...if you’d like to spend it with me.”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, his heart banging in his chest. Stiles looks away, looking flustered. “You don’t have to say yes. I know we’re not, uh - ”

“Yes,” Derek says, and Stiles looks at him quickly, hope on his face.

“Really?”

“Really,” Derek nods. He’s not sure he could say no even if he wanted to - but luckily, he does want to. Wants it badly. Even just thinking about it has his dick twitching in his jeans. “I want to.”

Stiles grins at him, his expression so earnest it makes Derek’s stomach twist. “Awesome.” Then his grin falters and he looks nervous again. “Um. My dad wants to meet you. Before we - if that’s all right.”

Derek’s stomach drops. He may have a pass from the sheriff to keep fucking his son, but he’s not sure he’s ready - if he’ll ever be ready - to meet him face to face. Stiles seems to sense his reticence because his face falls a little and he says again, “You don’t have to say yes. It’s okay.”

Derek can hear the disappointment in his voice. He knows that Stiles and his dad are close, and he knows that if he and Stiles are going to be together much longer he’s going to have to meet the sheriff eventually. “Okay,” Derek says, even though his skin’s prickling with unease.

Stiles eyes him uncertainly. “You’re sure?” Derek nods and Stiles’ shoulders slump in relief. “Thanks dude. He’s not going to yell at you or anything, I promise. I just know that he’ll feel more comfortable about us if he’s met you.”

Derek nods and Stiles ducks in for a quick kiss. “Thanks,” Stiles says again, his voice soft. “Dinner this weekend, then?”

“Okay,” Derek says again, holding in a sigh of resignation. Stiles beams at him, incredibly pleased, and Derek can’t help but smile back.

-

Laura laughs her ass off. “You’re meeting his dad?” she hoots. “When’s the wedding?”

Derek glowers at her. “Shut up.”

“Oh, no way, Der,” she beams, putting her chin in her hands. “This is way too precious.”

Derek glares down at his desk. They’re in his studio off the production floor; Laura’s sprawled in an unfinished Luna chair, which Isaac’s supposed to start staining tomorrow.

“When are you going to show him off to Mom?” Laura presses cheerfully. “Or me, for that matter. I only saw him for like two seconds that one time.”

Derek grinds his teeth together. “It’s not - he’s not something to show off, Laura.”

Laura tilts her head. “Oh? Have you even told Mom about him yet?” Derek shakes his head, and Laura’s face softens. “Why? You’re not ashamed, are you?”

“That’s not it,” Derek mutters, shifting on his stool. “I just don’t want her to get excited. You know how she gets.”

“Why are you worried?” Laura asks. “You don’t think this is going to last?”

Derek shrugs expressively. Most of his previous relationships have crashed and burned pretty spectacularly - he has no reason to think that this might be different. Laura sighs, exasperated. “You can’t go into it expecting to fail,” she admonishes, “or else it will. I have a feeling Stiles is pretty invested in this.”

Derek sighs. “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” Laura says, grinning. “He’s come to visit you, for one. How many of your previous dates have ever done that?”

“None,” Derek murmurs, head jolting up to stare out the window to the production floor. Erica’s leading Stiles toward the studio and they’re chattering cheerfully. He groans quietly. “Erica’s a menace.”

“They both are,” Laura agrees, tilting her head up to smile at Stiles as he and Erica appear in the doorway.

“You’ve got a guest,” Erica says gleefully, a little unnecessarily, as Stiles is standing right there next to her. Derek nods and Erica disappears back across the floor.

“Hey there, jailbait,” Laura says cheerfully. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

Stiles’s face goes bright red at the nickname. “Uh,” he says, a little flustered as he looks at Derek. “I have a free period right now. I didn’t know if maybe you wanted to get lunch.”

Laura raises her eyebrows at Derek, who rolls his eyes at her. “I’d like that,” he says to Stiles, who grins.

Laura sniffs. “Fine, I see how it is. Just abandon me, why don’t you?”

Stiles casts her a concerned look. “Do you want to come?”

She laughs. “No, I’m good, sweetheart. Some other time.”

Stiles nods, his eyes flickering back to Derek, who gets to his feet. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says to Laura, who nods.

“Sure thing,” she says easily. “Have fun. I’m going to stick around and harass your employees.”

Derek rolls his eyes as he steps around her. “If any of them quit because of you, I expect you to pick up the slack.”

They leave her laughing in the office and cross the production floor. Derek watches Stiles out of the corner of his eye; he’s looking around with great interest, taking in all the machinery and wood stacked against the walls. There’s a finished order of dining chairs sitting by the loading bay, waiting to be shipped to their owner in southern New Mexico and Derek eyes them proudly. He’s always pleased to see pieces go.

“Hey, um - “ Stiles says abruptly as they step out onto the street. “That was okay, right? Coming to your work? I know I didn’t ask - ”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and steering him around the corner. There’s a deli down this way that has really good sandwiches.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and takes a deep breath. “I just didn’t know, you know, how big of a secret you wanted us to be.”

Derek stops walking. “You think I want this to be a secret?”

Stiles stops walking too, looking at him seriously. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, lips parting when he realizes that no, he doesn’t. He shakes his head and Stiles’ expression brightens. “I don’t,” Derek tells him, “but I think that until you turn eighteen, we should keep it to ourselves. Just because your dad’s okay with it doesn’t mean that other people will be.”

Stiles considers this, then nods. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says.

“You can come see me any time, though,” Derek tells him, and he really means it. Stiles beams.

-

Saturday evening rolls around and Derek is nervous. Despite multiple reassurances from Stiles that he is not going to get arrested and his dad just wants to meet him, part of Derek can’t help but worry that it’s all some big ruse, that he’s part of some sting operation to take down sex offenders, God. He stands in his bedroom for a long time, agonizing over what he should wear - he doesn’t want to look too casual, or like he’s trying too hard, though if he’s going to get arrested he supposes it doesn’t matter anyway.

He settles on a dark button-up and khakis - the dark shirt will cover up how he’s sweating nervously - and drives to Stiles’ house with his heart banging in his chest. Stiles and his father live in the suburbs, in an older neighborhood where the houses sit further apart, big lawns lush and green. Their house isn’t big - a small two-story building painted a fading soft green. It looks a little unkempt, the grass long in the front yard - he supposes the sheriff’s probably too busy to sink a lot of time into maintaining the place. There’s a bright blue Jeep parked in the driveway and - Derek’s stomach clenches at the sight - a police cruiser parked right behind it, Beacon County Sheriff painted down its side.

He pulls up to the curb and sits there for a moment, gathering himself. Maybe he stays there too long - the front door swings open and Stiles trots across the yard, coming around to lean up against Derek’s window. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Derek says. “Just…” He shakes his head a little and confesses, “Nervous.”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Stiles says placatingly. “He’s not going to bite. I told him to take his gun off, anyway.” Derek pales and Stiles says hurriedly, “That was a joke!”

Derek exhales roughly. “That’s not funny.”

“Come on,” Stiles says gently, reaching through the window, sliding his hand around the back of Derek’s neck. He squeezes lightly and Derek exhales again, slower this time, steadied by Stiles’ touch.

“Okay,” he says, and leans across the center console to grab a six-pack of beer he’d picked up earlier. “Peace offering,” he says, when Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“So your plan is to get my dad drunk?” Stiles asks as Derek unfolds himself from the car, giving it a loving pat as he does - he’s lucky it even started.

“Maybe,” Derek says guardedly. His eyes flick up toward the house and his stomach tightens when he sees a man standing at the front door, watching them.

Stiles looks up and spots his dad too. He smiles and says again, “Come on.”

Derek takes a deep breath and follows him across the yard and up to the house. The sheriff steps forward to meet them, walking out onto the front porch and suddenly Derek’s heart’s beating in overtime because this isn’t just Stiles’ dad - this is the cop who came to their house after his dad -

“Derek?” Stiles asks softly, his face creasing in concern. Derek shakes his head slightly, forcing the memory from his head - he doubts the sheriff remembers and it doesn’t matter, anyway. He follows Stiles up onto the porch and offers his hand to the man when Stiles says, “Dad, this is Derek. Derek, this is my dad.”

“John Stilinski,” the sheriff corrects, shaking Derek’s hand firmly.

“Nice to meet you,” Derek manages, and he’s surprised at how steady his voice comes out.

The sheriff nods. He looks over at Stiles and says, “You’ve got a timer going off in the kitchen.”

“What?!” Stiles whips his head around. “Shit!”

They both watch him sprint inside, the screen door banging shut behind him, and then the sheriff turns his mild blue-eyed gaze on Derek. Derek gets the uncomfortable feeling that those eyes take in a lot more than they let on. “You can relax, son,” the sheriff tells him and Derek jolts a little. “You’re not in trouble.” Derek can’t help but give him an incredulous look. The sheriff sighs. “Stiles told me you had no idea how old he was. He gets carried away sometimes, acts without thinking. I can’t fault you for his impulsiveness.”

Derek swallows. “He asked me - next week - ”

The sheriff nods, jamming his hands in his pockets. “I know, and I’m not worried about it. He’d go to you with or without my permission, so I’d rather just get this settled and know that I don’t have to worry about who he’s with.”

“Okay,” Derek says quietly.

“I ran a background check on you,” the sheriff tells him placidly, and smiles faintly at the shocked look Derek throws him. “Can’t be too careful.”

“And?” Derek croaks.

“All clear,” the sheriff says, still smiling. He casts a fond glance toward the house. “He’s got a magnetic personality, doesn’t he? His mom was just the same way. Pushy.”

Derek snorts absently, his attention catching on the mention of Stiles’ mom. He realizes he hasn’t ever heard Stiles mention her and since she hasn’t come to greet him, he has to assume that she’s not at home. Or, he slowly realizes, based on the way Stiles’ father just said was, maybe she’s not around at all, in the way his dad’s not.

They both turn as Stiles comes back down the hall, leaning against the screen door. He grins at them. “Are you guys talking about me?”

“Sure are, kiddo,” the sheriff says, turning to look at his son. “I was just offering Derek a dowry to take you off my hands.”

Stiles sniffs haughtily. “How much?”

“Oh, let’s see.” The sheriff glances over at Derek, smiling faintly. “Five thousand sound good?”

“Five thousand?” Stiles repeats, sounding outraged. “I’m worth twenty, at least!” A buzzer goes off in the kitchen and Stiles makes an irritable noise, spinning on his heel to take care of it.

The sheriff laughs quietly. “He’s a good kid,” he tells Derek, and Derek expects some kind of follow-up like and if you hurt him I’ll put a bullet through your skull, but instead he just adds - rather cheerfully - “But he’s your problem now.” Derek blinks in surprise.

“Dad!” Stiles hollers from the kitchen over the clatter of dishes. “Stop maligning me!”

The sheriff chuckles and claps Derek on the shoulder. “Come on,” he says genially, and leads the way into the house. Derek follows slowly, looking around curiously.

The Stilinski house is cozy and well-cared for inside, the wood floors shining with polish. Derek can feel himself relaxing with every step further into the house; the place is saturated with the smell of Stiles - and his father, too, but they’re family, so their scents are similar enough that it doesn’t bother Derek. Instead, it’s like a heavy blanket wrapping around his shoulders, familiar and comforting. Some of his nervousness bleeds away, giving him the presence of mind to look around and take in all the details.

The house is cluttered but not messy, full of life and memories - photographs hang on every wall. Most of them are of Stiles at various ages - Stiles as a little kid, wide-eyed as he pets the nose of a cow; Stiles older, maybe eight, beaming at the camera with a couple teeth missing; what looks like a family vacation on a sandy beach, cerulean ocean stretching behind him. There’s a woman in some of the pictures with him and she has Stiles’ dark hair and eyes, the same wide smile. His mom, Derek thinks. There are other pictures - a much younger sheriff dressed in military fatigues, a dark-haired kid Derek’s pretty sure is Stiles’ friend from the library, Stiles’ mom, looking not much older than Derek, leaning casually against the blue Jeep he saw sitting in the driveway.

“Derek!” Stiles says from beside him, appearing suddenly. Derek looks around and realizes that the sheriff left him behind after he drifted into the living room. Stiles makes an embarrassed noise when he realizes Derek’s staring at all the pictures on the wall and tugs on his hand. “Come on - dinner’s almost ready.”

Derek lets Stiles lead him out of the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen, which is warm and bright and full of good smells. Derek can see the sheriff out on the back porch, dealing with a gas grill.

“Anything I can help with?” Derek asks, watching Stiles lift the cover of a pot on the stove. Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, it’s all good.” He glances out the back door at his father and lowers his voice. “Did it - did it go okay?”

Derek smiles slightly. He can tell this is important to Stiles. “It went fine.”

Stiles relaxes, relief flooding his face. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

Derek hesitates before stepping up next to him, a little wary of showing him any affection while they’re in sight of the sheriff - like the man might see them together and suddenly change his mind on the whole not prosecuting him thing - but Stiles immediately leans against him and Derek finally fully relaxes, his anxious heartbeat slowing. Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek’s shoulder before moving away, stretching to grab a bowl from one of the cabinets. Derek watches him dump the pot of wild rice into it, humming happily. Derek huffs out a laugh when he realizes it’s “A Horse With No Name” again. Stiles grins at him.

The sheriff comes in with a plate full of steaks as Stiles pulls a pan of rolls from the oven. Soon they’re settling down at the table, Stiles tugging Derek down to sit next to him when he hesitates, unsure where to go. He presses his knee to Derek’s, grinning encouragingly as the sheriff offers him the plate of steak.

“So, Derek,” the sheriff says, “did you go to college?”

Stiles groans. “Is it interrogation time?” he complains.

“Yes,” the sheriff says mildly, and looks at Derek expectantly.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, but Derek doesn’t really mind. It’s not a hard question.

He presses his knee back against Stiles’ and tells the sheriff, “I did. California College of the Arts.”

The sheriff raises his eyebrows. “Oh? An artist, huh?”

“I build furniture,” Derek says.

“He’s got a shop downtown,” Stiles adds, sounding a little defensive. “He owns it.”

The sheriff gives Derek an appraising look and Derek explains, his throat tightening, “It was my dad’s place. I took over the company when he passed away.”

The sheriff looks a little surprised - so does Stiles, and Derek belatedly realizes that he hadn’t told him about his dad. “Is it just you?”

“At the shop?” Derek shakes his head. “No, I’ve got four employees, but I’ll probably need to hire soon. The orders are starting to pick up.”

The sheriff nods, looking impressed, and they fall silent for a while, focusing on the meal. After a while, Derek nudges Stiles. “You lied to me,” he says. Stiles frowns at him, bewildered, while the sheriff gives his son a sharp look. Derek smiles faintly and says, “You told me you were a terrible cook.”

The sheriff laughs and Stiles’ face clears, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “I just did the sides,” he says. “Dad did the steak.”

“Stiles did the marinade,” the sheriff points out, his eyes twinkling. “His own recipe, I believe. He didn’t just get his forwardness from his mom.”

Stiles scoffs but his flush deepens; Derek can tell he’s pleased.

The conversation’s easier after that, the ice broken. Derek talks about his family - Stiles knows Cora; she was a year above him in high school. Derek has gathered that Stiles is a senior, which makes him feel a little bit better about the whole underage thing - he’ll be done with school in a few months, and he’ll be eighteen in less than two. He and the sheriff talk about business development downtown while Stiles rolls his eyes and gathers their empty plates.

While the sheriff grabs a beer and disappears outside to clean the grill, Derek steps into the kitchen to help Stiles with the dishes. “Hey,” Stiles murmurs, bumping his hip against Derek’s. “Sorry about all the questions.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies quietly. “He’s just looking out for you.”

Stiles rinses a glass out and hands it to Derek, who dries it. “This isn’t bad, right?” Stiles asks suddenly. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a thousand other things you’d rather be doing than having dinner here, but - ”

“That’s not true,” Derek says. He may not be the most social person, and he may have been dreading this visit, but it’s been enjoyable. Besides, he has this inherent need to please Stiles, and if having dinner with him and his father is the easiest way to make him happy, that’s no hardship.

Stiles looks up at him hopefully. “You mean that?”

Derek nods, pleasure surging in him at the way Stiles grins and leans over to kiss him, bumping their noses together before he leans away again, bending over the sink. They don’t speak again until the dishes are finished but the atmosphere in the kitchen is relaxed and easy. Stiles keeps touching him - long, steady presses of his hip or elbow, very deliberate, and Derek presses back, unable to contain a small smile. When Derek’s put the last plate away, Stiles asks, “Do you need to get going, or can you stick around?” He sounds a little nervous when he asks, like he’s still not entirely sure Derek wants to be there.

“Sure,” Derek nods.

“Cool,” Stiles breathes, slipping his hand into Derek’s and linking their fingers together. “I think there’s a Giants game on.”

It’s a little odd, Derek thinks, eyes on their joined hands as Stiles leads him to the living room. He doesn’t think they’ve ever held hands. Most of their time has been spent together at Derek’s apartment, and they can’t draw attention to themselves when they’re in public. He likes it; it’s an oddly intimate gesture. Stiles’ hand is firm around his; he can feel Stiles’ heartbeat pulsing through his fingers, steady and reassuring.

The sheriff is already in the living room, sprawled in a recliner facing the television. Stiles pulls Derek down to sit on the couch next to them and the sheriff turns to look at them, smiling faintly. “I’m afraid our furniture probably isn’t up to your standards,” he says with a wink and Derek goes red.

“That’s not - ” he tries. “I’m - ”

Stiles elbows him. “He’s just kidding.” The sheriff snorts, turning his eyes back to the game playing on tv. Derek sinks back into the couch warily. It is more comfortable than any of the couches the studio produces; upholstery isn’t their specialty.

They watch the game in companionable silence, interrupted only by the sheriff muttering dire commentary under his breath. Derek pays more attention to Stiles than the game itself - he’s less antsy than he usually is, slumped against the couch, dark eyes half open as he watches the game. His hands are the only thing that move, tapping absently against his thighs, ghosting over Derek’s wrist, lightly dragging his nails up Derek’s arm. Derek’s lulled by the constant contact, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch as the hour wears on. This house is thick with Stiles’ scent, heavy in his nose and mouth, and his eyelids flutter slowly shut, breath slowing as he relaxes and drifts.

Dimly, he hears the sheriff say something and Stiles laughs. His hands tug at Derek and Derek lets himself be manouvered until he’s laying on the couch, head on Stiles’ lap. Stiles bends to whisper to him, his hands flitting over Derek’s face, his hair, his shoulders. “Dad says the couch must be pretty comfortable, huh?”

Derek makes a quiet noise of assent and Stiles laughs again, his hand settling against Derek’s collarbone. “I’ve got you,” he says, and Derek doesn’t doubt him for one minute.

-

When Derek wakes, the room is dark, the house silent. For a moment he can’t remember where he is, confused by the unfamiliar material under his cheek. A deep breath gets him a lungful of Stiles’ scent and then he remembers - he’s at Stiles’ house. The clock on the DVR tells him it’s eleven-thirty. He sits up slowly, rubbing an absent hand over his face. He doesn’t remember being tired enough to warrant that long of a nap but he’s feeling content, happy, almost buzzed.

Derek gets to his feet and swings himself toward the kitchen, where a familiar heart beats. Stiles sits at the kitchen counter on a tall stool, bent over what looks like his chemistry homework, though he looks up when Derek comes into the kitchen. “Hey man,” he says softly, a smile twisting his features. “Good nap?”

Derek nods, leaning up against Stiles’ side, pressing his nose to Stiles’ neck. Stiles makes a content noise, patting him on the cheek. “Lemme just finish this up and we can hang, unless you need to head out.”

“I’m good,” Derek murmurs, nosing against the warm patch of skin behind Stiles’ ear. His scent’s heavy there, concentrated, and Derek noses at it, lips brushing his skin, until Stiles starts to laugh and pushes him away. “That fucking tickles!”

Derek snorts and pulls away, lowering himself onto the other kitchen stool. “Where’s your dad?”

“He went in for an overnight shift,” Stiles replies, scrawling an answer on a sheet. He glances over at Derek. “He said it’d be fine if you want to stay here tonight.” His cheeks go a little pink.

“Your dad’s being pretty cool about this,” Derek says, and Stiles flushes a little darker.

“I think he’s just happy you have your life together.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You think I do?”

Stiles looks down at his books, flustered. “I - I mean, you seem like you do. You’ve got a business and an awesome apartment and - ” He blows air through his lips. “I don’t know why you’re interested in me.”

Derek smiles wryly. “I could ask the same of you,” he says. “There must be plenty of kids your age - ”

Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not a kid,” he says irritably. “I’m almost eighteen.”

“I know,” Derek says quietly. “And at first, I wanted you because my heat with you was the best heat I’ve ever had but now…” He trails off with a shrug. “I just like you.”

Stiles smiles tentatively. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Derek smiles faintly and leans forward to gap the distance between them, brushing his nose against Stiles’ cheek before kissing him slowly. He can feel Stiles’ grinning; he’s still grinning when he pulls away, pushing his books aside.

Derek gives him a significant look. “You done?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Stiles says flippantly, hopping off his stool.

“Your grades better not start slipping,” Derek warns, following him. “Your dad will blame me.”

Stiles pauses at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up significantly. “Do you, uh, want to stay?”

Derek gives him a long look, letting him start to squirm before he nods, one corner of his mouth quirking up. Stiles grins in relief. “Cool. Uh. Follow me?”

He trots up the stairs and Derek follows more slowly; there are more family photos hung up the stairwell. Stiles has a buzzcut in all of them, and is missing one or two teeth in most of them. “Why’d you stop cutting your hair?” Derek asks.

Stiles makes an embarrassed noise, running a self conscious hand over his messy brown hair. “Lydia said it made me look like I was eight.”

“Who’s Lydia?”

Derek watches Stiles shrug his shoulders. “Friend from school. I had a crush on her for the longest time, but she got a thing for older guys. Not that I’m any better, apparently,” Stiles adds, grinning at Derek over his shoulder. Derek snorts as he follows Stiles into his room - it’s immediately obvious that the room belongs to Stiles, and not just because it’s absolutely saturated with Stiles’ scent, heavy enough to make Derek’s mouth water. He doubts the sheriff would cover his walls in band posters and photographs of Stiles and his friends.

“I cleaned up a bit,” Stiles says, waving around vaguely. “So. This is my room.”

“I like it,” Derek says simply, and he does - not because it’s anything special, but mostly because it smells like Stiles. He can feel it settling over him like a cloak, warm and welcoming.

“Good,” Stiles says with a slightly awkward laugh. “We’ll be in here a lot, I guess, with my heat and everything.” He flushes. “Unless you wanted to do it at your place.”

“Whatever you want,” Derek tells him placidly. “You’ll probably be more comfortable here.”

Stiles flushes darker. “Yeah, that’s what my dad told me when I got my first heat.”

Derek looks at him carefully. “When did you get your first heat?”

“This year,” Stiles mutters, bright red down his neck now. “I was late. I’ve only had two.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “You…seemed like you knew what you were doing. For someone who’s only had two.”

Stiles shifts around awkwardly. “Well, I’ve had sex before. Just not - I mean, my ex got her heat a couple years ago, but I’ve never - we broke up before - ”

“You’ve never spent your heat with anyone?” Derek clarifies.

“No,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek can tell he’s embarrassed by it, though he’s not sure why - Derek spent most of his first year of heats alone, before he started dating his first girlfriend. Maybe he’s embarrassed because he’s less sexually experienced, but Derek’s had years of heats, and most of them have been shitty, anyway, so it’s not like his own experience means much.

“It’s going to be good,” Derek tells Stiles. “It’s easier with someone else.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “I’m just nervous.”

“We’ll make it good,” Derek says, stepping forward and curling his fingers in Stiles’ belt loops so he can tug him close. “I want you to enjoy yours as much as I enjoyed mine.”

Stiles gives him a tentative smile. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Derek admits softly, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a faint smile when Stiles leans forward to rub their cheeks together. Derek presses in closer, tilting his head to breathe in Stiles’ steady alpha scent, body tingling when Stiles curls his arms around Derek’s neck, burying his fingers in Derek’s hair.

Stiles exhales slowly, dragging his lips against Derek’s jaw. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs, and those words send heat blazing down Derek’s spine, a weak noise slipping from his lips.

“You got me,” Derek promises, his fingers digging into Stiles’ hips. “Stiles - ”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, slipping his hands down Derek’s chest, backing them toward the bed. He sits when the backs of his legs hit the mattress, pulling Derek down on top of him, and they up sprawled together across Stiles’ bed. “Perfect,” Stiles says, rewarding Derek with a languid kiss.

-

BONUS ARTWORK:


	5. caldera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 45k
> 
> I'm reluctant to post this one. I had hopes that this fic would end up as another novel-length work, but I struggled with it heavily. I had SO many ideas, and many specific scenes that I wanted to write, but I could NOT find a plot that worked for me. After I finished "here comes trouble" I promised that I wasn't going to use the Argents the villains anymore, and I was determined to stick to that - but none of the other villains or plotlines from the show really seemed to fit either, and I didn't feel like pulling some made up villain out of nowhere felt right either. I restarted this fic three times - the third try is what you get here - and still couldn't get what I wanted. I started knowing two things: I wanted a heavily-tattooed, ex-con Derek, and witch!Stiles. In the first iteration, Derek's being stalked by someone leaving him proof that Cora's alive post-fire, and he goes to Stiles & Lydia, who run a private investigation agency, to help him find her. This version is quite different - but again, I just never found the flow. I still love this fic and these character though. :')

“Hale. Hey, Hale.”

Derek looked up from the cutting board, where he’d been industriously dicing carrots, his thoughts far away. Boyd leaned up against the counter across from him, his dark brow dotted with sweat in the hot kitchen, chef’s whites crisp and new.

“Hey,” Boyd said again. “You going to need next Friday off?”

Derek frowned, setting down his knife. “Why?”

Boyd glanced around the kitchen, his dark eyes flitting over the other chefs, busy in their work. “Full moon on Friday,” he reminded Derek, his voice low. 

“Oh,” Derek said, glancing around uneasily. “I - if it’s all right.”

“Course it is,” Boyd told him firmly. “Take Saturday too, if you want it.”

Derek shook his head. “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”

Boyd nodded, but didn’t move away. “Erica said she was coming by tomorrow to check on you,” he said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Derek said. He picked up his knife pointedly and Boyd grinned at him before moving off across the kitchen. Derek didn’t return to his work immediately, giving the busy kitchen another uncomfortable glance. His eyes lingered on one of the waitresses, who’d pulled a silver charm from her pocket to show the busboy, delightedly telling him her parents had bought her a protective spell for her birthday. Those kind of spells were expensive, Derek thought, absently pulling another carrot toward the cutting board. They must have been saving for a while.

Derek sighed and returned to his work, dicing carrots, slicing mushrooms, mincing garlic. Working in the kitchen could be tedious and loud but was, for the most part, predictable, and he had his own prep corner where people mostly left him alone. Once in awhile, when the kitchen got busy, he’d get pulled in to make salads or watch the grill, but it wasn’t hard work. He got along with his coworkers, for the most part; some of the younger wait staff seemed afraid of him sometimes, but it was what it was. He kept his nose clean and for now, just existing without getting into any trouble was good enough.

Derek took a break around eight, building himself a sandwich and taking it to the alley out back, where he sat on a low bench Boyd had cobbled together from two-by-fours and milk cartons and watched dark clouds scud across the even darker sky. The moon peeked through every so often, wide and silver, a narrow sliver still missing. Its light was weak but even so, with a week left to go before it’d stand full in the sky, the moon’s pale beams were enough to make Derek’s heart beat faster in his chest, his fingertips flexing - and he hated it.

He hated the moon, and its wild, urgent call. He hated the way it pulled at him from every direction, like every nerve in his body was caught on a fisherman’s hook. He hated the lost hours when he fell to the change, the way his body ached after, the way people still said werewolf, fearful and uneasy - and what those frightened people had done to him - what they’d taken from him. He hated all of it.

“Have you been to their graves?” his court-appointed therapist had asked one gloomy afternoon. It was raining out, the sky so dark she’d turned on the lights inside. 

Derek shook his head. “They’re outside the city,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”

“You should talk to your parole officer,” his therapist said encouragingly. “She seems to like you.”

Erica would probably let him, but Derek didn’t want to go see his family’s graves. His pack. He didn’t want to think about them at all, about how much it hurt not having them. There was a gaping hole in his chest where his pack bond and their love used to sit. 

Derek went home at midnight and worked out in his building’s gym until he was as sore as if the moon were already full, and then he went up to his small, quiet apartment and didn’t sleep, the way he didn’t every night - par for the course. 

-

Erica was unpredictable, as usual; Derek was in the shower when she hammered on his door, and he groaned irritably at the noise, his hands covered in shampoo suds. “Give me a sec,” he growled, knowing she could hear it, and hurried to rinse out his hair before slapping the water off and stepping out into the humid air of the bathroom.

Erica beamed at him when he jerked the door open, shirt and sweatpants clinging to him damply. He supposed he should be grateful Boyd gave him a heads up at all - it'd given him the chance to clean up a bit, though he hadn't taken out the trash; Erica wrinkled her nose at it as she slipped past him into the apartment.

“What do you want?” Derek asked her wearily. 

Erica gave him a sharp smile and said, “Come on, Derek. Do I need a reason to visit?” Derek scowled at her and her grin grew. “How are you? Work going all right?”

“It's fine,” Derek said grudgingly. “Thanks.” He should be grateful; his old parole officer - a miserable asshole of a man - had harried Derek into a job as a janitor at the local community college, and while it hadn't been a bad job, per se, the harsh smell of cleaning products had burned Derek’s sensitive nose, leaving him with near-constant headaches. He’d been assigned to Erica after the old man retired, and she’d wasted no time securing him a job at her husband’s restaurant, where Derek had come to appreciate the chaotic closeness of it all.

Even more bewilderingly, Erica seemed to like him - like, as a person - and he wasn’t sure why. It might have something to do with the fact that they were both werewolves - and both omegas, at that - but it wasn’t something they ever really discussed. Isaac, the sous chef, had told Derek that they’d never hired one of her parolees before, so it didn’t sound like she did favors for people all that often. Whatever made him different, Derek was grateful to her, and he tried to pay her back by staying out of trouble - not that he was all that eager to find himself back in prison anyway. And anyway, he liked Erica in return; she was blunt and no-nonsense, but soft when she needed to be. In some ways, she reminded him of Laura - what he could remember of Laura, anyway.

Derek didn’t have any friends. He was arrested two weeks into his first semester of college, and all of his friends from high school had faded away long before that. He didn’t know anyone in the city; his shifts at work were spent almost entirely alone, and he certainly wasn’t finding friends at the grocery store. Erica and his therapist were just about the only people who knew he even existed anymore. With no family and Laura in the wind, there wasn’t anyone left for him.

Erica looked around his sparse apartment, her hands on her hips. It wasn’t a big place; Derek couldn’t afford much. To call it a one-bedroom apartment would be something of a lie - the bedroom was barely big enough to fit his bed and a dresser, and the living room was hardly any bigger. Derek hadn’t bothered with a couch; he’d saved for a couple months to get himself a nice armchair and then rounded out the place with an end table and wobbly bookcase he’d gotten at Goodwill, and that was it. Derek didn’t need much, but he still felt a little embarrassed whenever Erica came in and looked around. 

“You need some hobbies,” she said this time, narrowing her eyes at the end table; on it sat a plant she’d given Derek a couple month back, and it was a little withered, but he’d managed to keep it alive. Erica didn’t seem impressed.

“I do things,” Derek said mutinously, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Going to the gym isn’t a hobby,” Erica countered. “You only go because you can’t sleep.”

Derek’s jaw tightened; he wished he hadn’t told her about his issues sleeping. “I stay in shape,” he argued. “And - I read.”

Erica gave him an exasperated look. “You need to get outside,” she said. “Meet people. Join a club.”

Derek grimaced at the thought. “I see people,” he said. “At work. I see you.”

“Friends,” Erica sighed. “You need friends.” She ran a hand through her blonde curls, letting them bounce against her shoulders. “You know we’re not meant to be alone like this, Derek. We’re meant to have a pack.”

She might as well have twisted a knife in his chest to strike so low. Hurt, Derek said, “You don’t have a pack.”

“Boyd’s my pack,” Erica replied. “He’s enough.” She watched Derek for a moment, her face softening. “I worry about you sometimes,” she said. “Isolating yourself isn’t going to help anything.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to say to that. He wasn’t used to people worrying about him. 

“What are you going to do on the full moon?” she pressed.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. He’d spent all of his full moons since getting out of prison locked in his bathroom, where the worst damage he could do was tear apart the shower curtain. 

“Well,” Erica said slowly, “If you ever want some support - you can join me and Boyd.”

Derek stared at her, confused, a little suspicious. 

“Isaac comes over sometimes too,” she said encouragingly. “It helps, having other wolves around.”

Derek shifted his stance uneasily. “You don’t...hurt each other?”

Erica shook her head, her curls bouncing. “Never.” She watched him chew his lip and added, “You don’t have to say yes - but think about it.”

“Isn’t it - wouldn’t it be - strange?” Derek asked. 

Erica tilted her head to one side, her eyes sharp. “Why? Because I’m your parole officer? Or because Boyd’s your boss?”

“Both,” Derek said uncomfortably. “You must have other parolees - ”

“None of them were dealt a hand like yours,” Erica said firmly. “None of them were framed.”

Derek looked at his feet, his jaw tightening.

“Well - think about it,” Erica said again. “I’ve got other people to see.”

Derek nodded, watched her walk to the door. “Thanks,” he said abruptly, as she began to close the door behind her. Erica paused to smile at him, then shut the door, and Derek stood still for a while, listening to her footsteps recede down the hallway before he moved to get ready for work.

-

Derek didn’t own a car. He didn’t need one, living in the city, and since the terms of his parole forbade him from leaving city limits, even if there had been somewhere he wanted to go, he couldn’t. He walked where he could instead, and took the bus everywhere else, including to and from the restaurant, which was across the city from him. 

He didn’t mind the bus much - as long as he breathed through his mouth, because the mix of scents his sensitive nose could pick up was gut-churning. People tended to leave him alone, and the forty-minute ride to work meant that he could get in some good reading. He was currently saving for an iPod so he could block out the noise, but it wasn’t that noisy at night anyway, apart from the occasional raucous gaggle of kids heading to or from the clubs. Mostly, it was him and other second shift workers, and when they were all heading home after midnight, the bus was quiet, people’s heads hanging in weariness. 

On this night, a couple nights before the full moon, Derek got on the bus after work feeling exhaustion bone-deep. He plunked himself into an empty seat without much thought, slinging his knife bag across his knees and slumping with a sigh. One of their high school trainee cooks had managed to dump half a gallon of balsamic vinegar down Derek’s front, and his clothes had long dried, but the harsh scent of vinegar still clung to him, plus Boyd had been in a high dudgeon about a mediocre review in one of the newspapers; his bad mood had been catching, the whole kitchen tense. Derek was glad to be out of it, ready for a hot shower and his bed.

He fished his book out of the outer pocket of his bag and tried to concentrate - difficult, with vinegar irritating his nose, and an odd ringing in his ears. Derek shook his head irritably, even wiggled a finger in his ear, but the noise didn’t go away. He looked around the bus, eyes narrowed, seeking the source. Sometimes it was a lightbulb, or improperly laid electrical lines - but he didn’t see anything amiss. And anyway, the noise seemed to be coming from somewhere within his immediate vicinity.

Derek’s brow furrowed. He lifted his feet - no loose panels in the floor, and the seat seemed securely fastened. Maybe it was in his head, but...as Derek turned his head again, he caught sight of something sitting on the seat next to him. When he looked at it directly, he couldn’t see anything, but if he looked out of the corner of his eye, there was definitely something there, small and rectangular. Derek’s brow furrowed deeper. It was magical for sure, but what the hell was it? Was it dangerous? Had someone left it there on purpose?

Derek’s eyes flitted around the quiet bus, but no one was paying any attention to him. He frowned. He didn’t know much about magic, but it didn’t seem like something that was supposed to be found, which both worried him and piqued his curiosity. He turned his head again; watching the object from the corner of his eye, he slowly reached out and touched it - and with a slight jolt, the object clicked into focus: a romance novel.

Derek snorted quietly, incredulous, and picked the book off the seat. It was an old one, Fabio on the cover, holding a swooning woman. Why anyone would want to hide it was beyond him - except out of embarrassment, maybe. Then again - as Derek leafed through it, he noticed the way the type shook slightly, shivering in its place on the page. Maybe it wasn’t just a romance novel. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to imbue it with power and cloak it from sight. 

Derek paused. On the inside back cover, in a spiky, irritable scrawl, someone had written Stiles Stilinski. Return to 93 Glenwood Ave, Beacon City. This text didn’t shudder like the rest of the book; it sat firmly - pointedly, Derek thought. It cemented in his mind that this wasn’t just a romance novel - no one would have gone through the trouble to put their name and address in the back for something you could get for ten cents at a garage sale.

For a moment, Derek thought about putting the book back on the seat; it wasn’t his problem. But...at the same time, it seemed like it might be important to someone, and as someone who’d gone through most of his life unable to hold onto any possessions precious to him, he knew he’d appreciate it if someone returned something special he’d lost. Glenwood Avenue wasn’t all that far from the restaurant, anyway. He could stop by before his shift sometime. He’d do it after the full moon, he decided, when he wasn’t feeling so on edge.

-

The full moon passed about as well as Derek expected it to. He didn’t go to Erica and Boyd’s; it felt too personal, and he was embarrassed by his lack of control, ashamed two bitten wolves could handle it better than he could, the last of a werewolf bloodline stretching back hundreds of years. He couldn’t do it.

He stayed home instead, curled in the bathtub and tried to employ some of the control techniques his therapist had taught him. He was marginally successful; when he emerged from the moon-haze early in the morning, he’d torn his clothes, but the shower curtain was still whole, and at this point in his life, Derek was prepared to declare that a win. 

A few days after the full moon, Braeden called. That was unusual enough in itself, but even more unusual was the way she asked, “Are you safe?” before Derek had even finished saying hello.

Braeden had been one of his foster siblings originally, but even after she’d been placed with a different family, they’d stayed close. She’d reminded him of Laura, fierce and independent, and with no real family to call their own anymore, they were probably the closest each other had to family left. These days they talked once a month, if that - Derek still wasn’t entirely sure what it was she did for a living, but whatever it was involved a lot of traveling and weird hours, and the one time he’d seen her since getting out of prison, she’d smelled like gunpowder and he hadn’t had the nerve to ask why.

“I’m fine,” Derek said, confused. He was at his apartment, getting ready for work. “Why? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Braeden replied. She drew in a deep breath. In the background, Derek could hear a buzz of voices speaking a language he didn’t know. “I’ve been hearing things.”

“What kind of things?” Derek asked cautiously.

“People being hunted,” she said. “Your kind, and others - anything supernatural. Witches too.”

“What are you talking about?” Derek sighed. “You mean witch hunters?”

“No,” Braeden said sharply, and Derek paused, thrown by the intensity of her voice. “I don’t mean the government. I mean people taking matters into their own hands.”

“That can’t be true,” Derek said slowly. “I would have heard something - on the news, or somewhere. There’d be talk. People don’t just disappear.”

“Don’t they?” Braeden retorted. “Like what happened to your family?”

Derek was silent for a moment, stung. “That doesn’t happen anymore,” he said quietly.

“My contacts say otherwise,” Braeden said. She paused, then added, voice softening, “I just want to know you’re safe.”

“I am,” Derek assured her. “And - if this is true, I’ll be careful.”

“You better be,” she said sharply. “I don’t want to have to come save your ass.”

Derek snorted. “You won’t.” They fell silent for a moment, and Derek listened to the noise in the background, loud chatter and laughter. “Where are you?”

“Romania,” Braeden replied. 

“Are you at a bar?” Derek asked. “It must be late, right?”

“It’s almost three in the morning,” Braeden said. “Hasn’t seemed to stop any of these guys.” Derek snorted again. Braeden’s voice was softer when she said, “I have to get going. Keep yourself safe.”

Derek smiled faintly. “You too. Stay safe.”

-

Derek almost completely forgot about the book he’d found on the bus, the onset of the moon pushing it out of his mind. He’d set it on top of his bookcase and he’d grown so accustomed to the soft buzzing noise that he didn’t really hear it anymore; it was only by chance a couple days after Braeden’s call that he was scanning the shelves for something to read when his eyes landed on the romance novel and he remembered his resolution to return it to its owner.

Derek snorted to himself as he picked up the book, magic buzzing faintly against his fingers. He had to admit that he was curious to know who’d gone through so much trouble to hide it, and why they’d disguised it as a bad 80s romance novel, of all things - and, of course, what it actually was. Tomorrow, he resolved. He’d return the book and - who knew? Derek wasn’t one to go seeking out adventure, but maybe something interesting would happen.

-

The next day, Derek left an hour before he normally did, deciding to give himself a little extra time just in case - worse came to worst, he’d just eat lunch at the restaurant before starting his shift. With the romance novel tucked safely in his knife bag, Derek got on the bus and crossed town.

Glenwood Avenue was two stops further than where Derek usually got off. He wasn’t too familiar with this part of the city; it seemed to be more residential and less commercial, more houses and quiet streets. Glenwood was lined with tall cottonwood trees, casting the sidewalks in dappled light. Derek liked it much better than his part of the city; he was on the eighth floor of his apartment building, and all he saw from his windows were other buildings. He probably wouldn’t be able to afford anything in this area; the houses were old and well-kept, manicured lawns and nice cars in the driveway. 

Derek was somewhat startled to see that 93 Glenwood Avenue wasn’t one of the nice houses; it was one of a few brick commercial buildings at a cross-street, sandwiched between a nice-looking deli and a hair salon. 93 Glenwood had a sign above the door that said Whistlepig Antiques, and the window display - a variety of glassware - was so covered in dust it didn’t look as though it’d been touched in fifty years. Not entirely encouraged, Derek steeled himself and pushed open the door, stepping into the shop. Almost immediately, he had to fight to keep himself from sneezing - not from the dust, though there was plenty of that, but the thick scent of magic in the air, so sharp and electric he could almost taste it in his mouth. 

There were shelves all around him, stacked with all kinds of odds and ends - candlesticks, brass figurines, teacups, books, rusted farming implements - a little bit of everything, in no certain order, most of it covered in a thick layer of dust. Surely, despite all the magic in the air, it wasn’t all magic - would that even be legal?

Derek moved cautiously through the narrow aisles, worried about knocking one thing down and starting an avalanche. He was beginning to think the place was abandoned - the counter by the front held a register, but no one stood behind it - when he rounded a shelf and found a sort of sitting area in the middle of the shop, a round coffee table between a high-backed Victorian sofa and a couple of mismatched armchairs. Two women sat on the couch; one was a petite redhead, her legs folded primly under her, an embroidery hoop in her hands. The other was dark-haired and long-legged, her boots up on the coffee table. The redhead didn’t even look at Derek, her brow furrowed in concentration, but the other woman looked up from her magazine - Steel & Grit; it appeared to be an hunting supply catalogue - and smiled at him.

“Do you need any help?” she asked.

“Er,” Derek said, and paused, losing his thoughts as his eyes landed on one of the armchairs and the small, fat brown animal sitting in it, watching Derek with beady black eyes. It held a well-gnawed carrot. Derek stared at it, utterly lost.

“Hey!” someone yelled from the back of the shop, startling Derek so bad he jolted sideways into a tall candelabra and only just barely managed to keep it from hitting the floor. He looked around and spotted a door toward the back, half open; a sign on it said Employees Only. “Is that Scott?” bawled the voice. “Stop fucking around out there and come help me!” 

Derek cleared his throat. “Uh - ”

“I think you have a customer!” the dark-haired girl yelled back.

A man around Derek’s age, maybe younger, had stuck his head around the door, and he looked at Derek in surprise. “Huh? Oh - sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said, his face going warm as the young man pulled the door open all the way and stepped out into the shop. 

“Can I help you?” the guy asked. Derek wasn’t quite sure who he’d expected to find, although the dusty shop full of antiques had inspired in his head the image of an equally dusty old shopkeeper of indeterminate sex (though, due to the romance novel’s content, Derek had hazarded a guess at female; he’d never heard the name Stiles before and had no clue what gender it might apply to). The Stiles in front of him was about as far from that image as possible; young and lean, broad-shouldered, his mouth lilting up on one side in a friendly smirk. Handsome too, even in a threadbare t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees - Derek was even more startled by the way his stomach gave a nervous twist at the sight of him.

“I, uh - “ Fuck, he was flustered. “I’m looking for Stiles Stilinski,” Derek managed to tell him, his face on fire. 

“That’s me!” the guy said brightly. “What’s up?”

“I found something of yours, I think,” Derek said, fumbling for his bag.

“Oh?” Stiles tilted his head to one side like a bird, his dark eyes curious. 

Derek nodded and pulled the book out of his bag, offering it to Stiles, whose eyes lit up. “Oh, dude!” he said excitedly, taking the book from Derek’s hands. “I thought this was gone for good!” Both of the women on the couch craned to see as well; the redhead put her embroidery down and said, “That’s how you hid it?”

Derek blinked, and the book in Stiles’ hands was suddenly a leather bound journal. “Not a romance fan, then?” he asked. 

Stiles snorted, flipping through the pages; Derek caught brief glimpses of drawings of plants and densely-packed writing. “Nah, I figured Fabio would deter any but the most curious eyes. Although - ” He lifted his head, looking at Derek speculatively. “You shouldn’t have been able to see this at all. What are you?”

“What?” Derek said, taken aback. “I’m not anything.”

“Oh come on,” Stiles persisted. “You wouldn’t have been able to sense this if you didn’t have some kind of power, so what are you? Witch? Shifter?”

Derek glared at him. He hadn’t even told any of his coworkers he was a werewolf, and he’d been working in the kitchen almost six months - he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell this stranger what he was. “That’s none of your business,” he said stiffly.

To his relief, Stiles shrugged. “Sure. Anyway - thank you, seriously. I’d pretty much given up on seeing this again.”

“What is it?” Derek asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. He thought he was justified in asking; he’d held onto the thing for more than a week, after all.

“Spellbook,” Stiles said, holding the book open for a moment, so Derek could see a spread: more densely packed writing split around a detailed drawing of a sprig of some kind of herb. Stiles snapped it shut and briskly added, “Notes from my craft.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “You’re a witch?” he asked curiously. “Licensed?”

“Hedgewitch,” Stiles corrected, tucking the book under his arm. “And...not really. That’s my familiar,” he added, nodding behind Derek. Derek turned and realized he was gesturing at the fat creature still sitting in the orange armchair, busily gnawing on its carrot. “And my friends,” he added cheerily, gesturing at the girls on the couch. 

“Hi,” Derek said dutifully. He added, eyeing the thing in the armchair doubtfully, “What is that?” 

“Woodchuck,” Stiles said. “His name’s Bernard.”

“Oh,” Derek said slowly. He looked back at Stiles, suddenly understanding. “Whistlepig.”

“Right,” Stiles said, grinning. “Well, hey - you want a cup of coffee? I just put on a fresh pot.”

Derek hesitated, and he wasn’t sure why; he had no reason to stick around, but part of him wanted to. Stiles and this little dusty shop were interesting - this was the most interesting thing that had happened to him since...he didn’t know when. But his anxiety got the best of him instead; he shook his head and said, “I need to get to work.”

“All right,” Stiles said ambivalently. “But - I owe you.”

Derek shook his head again. “You don’t owe me anything.”

It was Stiles’ turn to shake his head. “No, no; I owe you a debt now and I have to pay it back. If there’s anything I can do for you - any spells you need cast - I can do it.”

“Spells?” Derek repeated, a trifle uneasily; he wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with magic. Not an easy thing, with the world so saturated in it, but he didn’t seek it out. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I mean, don’t go broadcasting it everywhere, but I can get shit done.” He cracked his knuckles meaningfully. “Think about it.”

“Okay,” Derek said slowly. “I will.”

“You know where to find me,” Stiles said, “but - “ He moved his hand through the air, pulling a pen from nowhere. With his other hand, he reached out and took Derek’s hand, pulling it toward him so he could write his number on Derek’s palm. Derek tried to be polite and breathe through his mouth, though he couldn’t help but take one yearning sniff through his nose, his skin breaking into goosebumps at Stiles’ scent; strong herbs like an apothecary, shot through with the same electrical smell that hung in the shop, and something deep and earthy underneath that Derek wanted to cover himself in, wanted to taste it on his tongue.

Stiles lifted his head, meeting Derek’s eyes, and he smiled faintly. “Werewolf, huh?” he said softly, and his hand came up, long fingers brushing against Derek’s jaw in a gesture far too intimate for strangers. 

Derek jerked his head back - and hand - back, startled. “I - have to go,” he choked out, and spun around, nearly knocking over the candelabra for the second time. 

“See you around!” Stiles called after him.

Derek didn’t reply; he felt hot all the way from his forehead down to his toes, skin buzzing at the memory of Stiles’ touch. Don’t read into it, he told himself angrily, stalking off down the street. He was just - lonely, that was it. He didn’t particularly care to surround himself with people, but even he had to admit to himself that once in awhile, it might be nice to spend some time with another person outside of work.

Derek was thrown off his groove for the rest of the day. He cut himself twice - thankfully none of his coworkers noticed how his cuts healed over in moments - and dropped a box full of tomatoes, ruining half of them. Isaac was pissed about that one; he told Derek to go clean out the walk-in, and Derek fled to it gratefully.

He kept thinking about Stiles - and Stiles’ offer of a spell. What could he ask for? Was there even anything he needed? Derek lived a pretty minimal life, and he was honestly all right with it. 

He kept thinking about it for the next few days. Stiles’ number washed off his hand, but Derek carefully wrote it down before it disappeared. He jerked off a couple of times, thinking about the way Stiles had touched his face, imagined touching him all over. He thought maybe the favor could be asking Stiles to let him take him out for dinner or something, but he didn’t think he could ever get the words out - and that’d be creepy, anyway.

It wasn’t until after one of his twice-monthly therapy sessions that Derek realized he knew what he needed. It’d been another long, painful session; Derek was aware he had a lot of problems, but he didn’t like talking about them, and he definitely didn’t like talking about the past. This session, his therapist tried to get him to talk about his family, and Derek stubbornly dug his heels in and refused. It ended like it always did, with his therapist sighing and telling him she’d see him in two weeks, and Derek leaving with his head spinning and heart heavy, feeling flayed raw on the inside. 

Laura would have had some sarcastic comment to make about that, Derek thought, and paused where he was, halfway up the front steps of his building. Laura, he thought, his eyes widening. Maybe Stiles could help him find Laura. 

He hadn’t seen Laura in...fuck, almost twenty years. The last time he saw her, they were huddled together in a Child Protective Services office after the fire, drowning in sorrow and terrified out of their minds. His memories of that time were vague, more feeling than anything, but that day stood out in sharp contrast to even the fire; when his foster family came to take him away, they’d had to carry him because he’d fought every step of the way. The pain of being separated from Laura, the last of his pack, had been immense - for the both of them; he could still remember her screaming. 

He’d tried, since then, to find her, but she’d gone off the map. Derek didn’t even know if she was still alive, or if maybe she was untraceable because she’d changed her name, or what. Maybe she’d gone underground, like a lot of werewolves still were. Whatever the case, he couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere. He didn’t even know if she would want to see him if he did manage to find her. Just knowing she was alive would be enough for him, and though he couldn’t find her, maybe Stiles could.

Sometimes after his therapy sessions, Derek went to the city library. He’d read a lot in prison; it was one of the few things in life he deeply enjoyed, and currently he was working his way through a series of French philosophical writers, starting with Camus and now entrenched in Bergson. He liked the library; on Wednesday afternoons it was very quiet, and he often whiled away the hours before his shift sitting in one of the chairs below the big windows on the balcony on the second floor, reading contentedly. 

He liked the librarian who worked on Wednesdays, too; her name was Kira, and she was some kind of shifter, though he had yet to figure out what. She was always nice to him, happy to discuss whatever he’d selected for the week, and she didn’t seem inclined to judge him like a lot of the people who saw the tattoos on his hands and creeping above the collars of his shirts seemed to. She asked him, once, with nothing but curiosity in her voice, what they meant, and when Derek had hesitated - mostly because he wasn't sure how to tell her that half of them didn't mean anything, and the other half were prison tattoos - Kira clapped her hand to her cheeks and said, horrified, “Sorry! That was such a private thing to ask, sorry!”

“It’s all right,” Derek had said quietly, his face a little warm. He didn't mind her asking, because he knew she didn't mean anything by it. He’d offered her his arm, flipping his hand over so she could see the line of initials on the inside of his wrist. “That's all my family.”

“That’s so sweet!” she’d told him, and the sincerity in her voice had buoyed his mood for at least a week.

On this particular Wednesday, Derek nodded to Kira as he passed by the front desk, but he didn’t stop to chat. He didn't head for the philosophy section either; he headed for the back of the library, where a flight of stairs led him down to the basement and the long, dim shelves of the local newspaper archives. His Wednesdays therapy sessions put him on edge every time, without fail, dredging up memories he didn't want to relive - but this one had finally struck a chord that hummed in his head, impossible to keep ignoring.

Derek walked up and down the long, quiet rows of bound, eyes scanning the dates until he found what he was looking for - the May archives, nineteen years back - and then he stood there for a long moment without moving, hands curled into fists. Finally, he exhaled sharply and pulled the volume off the shelf. It was tall and hard to flip through, so he sank to the dusty floor and spread it open across his knees, turning each page carefully so it wouldn’t rip. 

He was glad to be sitting when he finally found the article, front page news on a Thursday, because the leading photograph of his childhood home burned to rubble, smoke still spiraling from the pile of fallen timbers was so shocking that his whole body went numb. He had to close his eyes for a long moment, steadying himself before he could face reading the accompanying article. 

Eight people have died in a house fire in a rural suburb outside of Beacon City early Wednesday morning, making it Beacon County’s deadliest fire in over thirty years.

The fire at the home, located at 19 Elm Avenue, was reported at 3:13 a.m., but by the time firefighters arrived approximately ten minutes later, the structure had already been fully engulfed in flames, and they were unable to enter the property. The deadly blaze took crews from Beacon City, Valhalla, and Lennox Grove five hours to fully extinguish, and according to Fire Chief Shawn Sumner, initial investigations indicate no foul play; he cautions, however, that it’s too early in the investigation to make any official ruling. 

According to tax records, the home is owned by Talia and Samuel Hale. Though the identities of the eight killed in the fire have not yet been released by authorities, authorities have confirmed that two children survived the blaze after escaping from a second-story porch.

Derek stopped reading; he leaned his head back against the shelves and closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. The old hurt swelled in his chest and he struggled to tamp it back, unwilling to break down in the basement of a public library. He opened his eyes again and stared up at the fluorescent light bulbs until his breathing was back under control.

He skimmed the rest of the article, but it didn’t offer much more information. He flipped forward through the pages of the archive, scanning for any other mention of the fire. There was another article a couple weeks later and while there wasn’t much to it the headline said Firefighters rule on deadly Beacon City fire: no foul play suspected, with a smaller subheading that said Victims identified as local lawmaker and her family. Derek stared at it until the words blurred under his gaze, confused. He knew - he knew it wasn’t an accident. They’d been killed - murdered. He could remember the strange feeling in the house in the weeks leading up to the fire; something had been going on and his parents had tried to hide it from Derek and his siblings, but he understood when he grew older - someone had known what they were, and they’d died because of it. So why was it ruled accidental?

Derek gritted his teeth. Had the arsonist done such a good job that their work had gone undetected? Or was it a product of the times - a coverup of the murder of eight werewolves? Had someone been paid off to rule it an accident, or had they been deemed unworthy of a full investigation? He didn’t know - and at this point, he might never know. Derek sighed, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing, letting the anger filter out of him. He focused instead on the photo beneath the article; it’d been taken at a distance, a funeral shot between headstones. The distance made it nearly impossible to make out faces, but he remembered that day and where he’d stood, Laura’s arm around his shoulder. The authorities had separated them the next day, but they’d had the funeral and, for a little while longer, each other. He looked at their faint, blurred faces, and sighed.

Derek paged through the rest of the book, but the only other thing he found was a section dedicated to his family’s obituaries, and he found he wasn't quite ready to read them yet. He sighed again and glanced at his phone; he needed to get to work soon.

Derek got to his feet and was about to put the volume back on the shelf when he hesitated. Beyond the long shelves of newspapers was a small open space with a table and chairs and, humming in a corner, a very old copier. It was coin-feed and ate four dimes before it registered that he’d put anything in and vibrated threateningly while it copied, but the picture of them came out well enough. Derek looked at it as he headed back upstairs, his heart aching. It was all he had.

“Nothing today?” Kira called to him as he headed for the door.

“Lost track of time,” Derek told her, and he stepped outside into the hazy gray light of an overcast September afternoon. That night, when he got home after work, he carefully trimmed the excess from around the photo and hung it on the fridge, where it looked almost normal, surrounded by cheap magnets and expired coupons for takeout places Derek didn't even like. He’d find her, he thought, and Stiles would help. 

-

Derek went back to the antique shop two days later, his shoulders set determinedly. Striding quickly down Glenwood Avenue, he had a moment of irrational fear that he’d get to the space where Stiles’ shop had been and it’d be gone, like something out of a book - a blank expanse of brick, or another business that’d never heard of Stiles or his shop - but Whistlepig Antiques was still there, the dusty vases still in the window. Derek inhaled deeply and pushed his way inside.

Stiles stood behind the register this time; he turned to look at Derek as he entered the shop, and a fleeting smile crossed his face. “Hello,” he said, rather stiffly. 

The way he said it immediately put Derek on edge. They weren’t alone in the shop; a middle-aged couple stood in a nearby aisle. As Derek watched, the woman picked up a ceramic figurine of a fawn and examined it, her eyes narrowed. The man beside her was giving a taxidermy pheasant an equally long look. Derek looked back at Stiles, raising his eyebrows. 

“Can I help you find anything in particular?” Stiles asked politely. 

“No,” Derek said, his eyes flickering to the couple and then back to Stiles. “Just browsing.” 

“Let me know if you need anything,” Stiles said, looking past him at the couple. His eyes narrowed, and Derek nodded, moving off down one of the narrow, cluttered aisles. Derek could no longer see the couple, but he could see Stiles watching them; he was pretending to write in a notebook, but his eyes stayed on them, watching them move through the store. They didn’t speak to each other, or to Stiles, and the woman barely glanced in Derek’s direction when they passed by him. He pretended to be very engrossed a very musty old copy of Pollyanna.

Derek had been in the store maybe fifteen minutes before the couple finally left, still without a word. He set down the book and stepped out of the aisle. “Who were they?”

Stiles peered out the window, frowning. “Witch hunters,” he said, heaving a sigh of relief. “They’re gone.” He stepped around the end of the counter and over the door, where he turned the Open sign to Closed, and then he dropped his head against the glass, heaving another sigh. 

“Witch hunters?” Derek repeated, alarmed. “I didn’t think they were still around.”

“They are if you aren’t licensed,” Stiles sighed. He lifted his head, turning to look at Derek. “I keep this place scrubbed.”

“It smells like magic in here,” Derek said, sniffing. 

Stiles hand-waved this away. “It’s residual,” he said airily. “Like dust. Plausible deniability - this stuff could have come from magical homes. What’s important is that none of the items are actually magical, and I check everything myself before it goes on the shelves.”

Derek gave the small store a thoughtful glance. “You make a living here?”

Stiles scoffed. “Fuck no. This is just a cover.” He gave Derek an appraising grin. “Is that why you came back?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, suddenly nervous. He scratched anxiously at the back of his neck. “Um - ”

“Hold on, hold on,” Stiles said, waving his hands again. “You want to sit? Have some coffee?”

“I - okay,” Derek agreed.

Stiles grinned again and turned the lock on the shop door. “Follow me,” he said grandly, and led the way through the shop, through the door that said Employees Only. Beyond it was a small, cramped office, cluttered with papers and empty mugs and some kind of climbing vine that was taking over a filing cabinet, and on the opposite wall was another door. Stiles jerked this one open to reveal a dark flight of stairs, which he stomped up without hesitation. 

“This floor’s warded,” he said over his shoulder to Derek. “You might feel a bit of a buzz.”

Derek contained a grimace, but followed Stiles up the stairs; sure enough, halfway up, Derek felt them pass through the magical seal. It buzzed in his bones, reverberating uncomfortably in his jaw - but the feeling lasted only a split second, and then he stepped out onto the second floor of the building.

It appeared to be an apartment - Stiles’, he’d guess - and it was filled with plants; the air smelled fresh and green and a little spicy - and sharp, too, with more magic than he’d ever smelled. Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles warily; he didn’t think hedgewitches were all that strong, but Stiles’ apartment seemed almost alive with magic. 

“You can feel it?” Stiles asked curiously, turning to look at him.

Derek nodded.

“Some werewolves don’t seem to be able to,” Stiles told him. “My best friend can’t feel any magic at all.”

Derek gave him a long look. “You know a lot of werewolves?”

“Enough,” Stiles replied, one side of his mouth quirking up. 

“How’d you know I was one?”

“Your eyes were glowing,” Stiles said, still smiling. 

“Oh,” Derek said, and looked away, embarrassed; he should be able to control that. He needed to be able to control that; maybe people weren’t going to actively try to kill him anymore, but that didn’t mean they were going to like him, either. 

“Hey, I’m not going to tell anyone,” Stiles said, suddenly serious. “I promise.” He gestured around. “I mean - you know I’m hiding all this shit.”

Derek looked around again, his mouth dry with nerves. It was a cozy place - he could see a small kitchen off to his left, and the living room lay before them, a wall of built-in bookcases holding a multitude of books and plants and odds and ends. To his right, a hallway held at least three other doorways, and the whole place seemed, well, loved. Someone cared about it deeply; he could feel it polished into the floors and painted into the walls. 

“Why don’t you sit?” Stiles invited, nodding toward the living room. “I’ll get the coffee started.”

Derek nodded, and watched Stiles head into the kitchen before he stepped into the living room. Bright afternoon sunlight streamed in through large picture windows, casting warm rays over the multitude of plants sitting on the windowsills. It was a nice place, Derek thought - much nicer than his. It felt like a home; he peered at the bookshelves curiously, and amongst leather-bound tomes and paperback novels, as well as all kinds of strange things - animals skulls ranging in size from smaller than a kiwi to larger than his fist, jars of unfamiliar liquids, birds’ nests with eggs still nestled inside, a glass jar full of leaves and a bright blue chrysalis hanging from a stick - there were touches of Stiles’ life. He looked at a photograph of two boys, probably no older than ten; they were both missing their front teeth and one of them held a disgruntled-looking woodchuck - Stiles. 

He turned as Stiles came into the living room, carrying a sugar bowl and a couple of mugs, with a carton of half and half tucked under one arm, which he set down on the coffee table. “You hungry?” Stiles asked cheerfully. “One of my clients brought over a shit-ton of cookies.”

“I’m fine,” said Derek, who didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. Stiles seemed to assume he was just being polite, because the next time he came back from the kitchen, he had a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. 

“Help yourself,” Stiles said, throwing himself down in an armchair. 

“Thank you,” Derek said, stiff because of his mounting nerves. He wasn’t even all that thirsty, but since Stiles was watching him expectantly, he leaned forward and poured himself a cup of coffee and then, reluctantly, picked up the smallest cookie he could see. Only after he sat back did Stiles pour a cup of his own, dumping in so much sugar and cream that it make Derek’s teeth hurt just watching him. To distract himself from the horror unfolding before him, he said, “How do you keep the hunters from sensing this place?”

“It’s heavily warded,” Stiles said, busily stirring a spoon in his mug. “And certain parts of the building are built from mountain ash to force the magic inward.”

Derek raised his eyebrows; mountain ash was serious - not to mention expensive - stuff. “You built this place?”

“No,” Stiles said, tossing him a faint, brittle smile. “It’s been passed down through the family.”

“Oh,” Derek said, sensing danger in the question. 

“Anyway,” Stiles said. “Tell me what you’re thinking - and your name,” he added, his eyes sparkling with good humor.

“Oh,” Derek said again, his cheeks heating up. He’d completely forgotten to ever introduce himself. “Derek.” 

“Hey,” Stiles said easily, smiling faintly. “So - what can I do for you?”

Derek hesitated - just for a moment - and then asked, “Do you think you could help me find my sister?”

Stiles looked a little surprised. “Your sister?” he repeated. “Is she missing?”

“I can’t find her,” Derek told him. “I’ve looked - I don’t know how to find her.”

Stiles scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Hm,” he said at length. “I’m not a private investigator. It’s a little beyond the scope of what I usually do.”

“Oh,” Derek said, disappointed. “Then - nevermind.”

“No, no, I’m not saying no,” Stiles said, waving his hands placatingly. “I’ll just have to do a little research.”

“Are you sure?” Derek asked him. “If it’s too difficult - ”

“Shouldn’t be,” Stiles said. “Just a different kind of magic than I usually do. And anyway, I owe you bigtime for bringing my journal back. That’s like a decade of notes I couldn’t afford to lose.”

“Well,” Derek said, a little doubtfully, “if you think you can do it...I’d appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do, honestly,” Stiles told him. “Give me a couple days to read up on divining, and I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He hesitated, then added, “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Derek didn’t know what to do or say, so he drank his coffee and, reluctantly, took a bite of the cookie in his other hand. Stiles was staring at the bookcases behind Derek, his eyes narrowed in thought. Derek finished the cookie, mournfully running his tongue over his teeth, and found the courage to ask, “What sort of things do you usually do?”

Stiles’ eyes snapped from the bookcase to Derek. “Do you know a lot about magic?”

Derek shook his head; his foster parents had gone through great lengths to keep him away from anything they deemed dangerous. He’d learned what he could in bits and pieces - from kids at school and, later, guys in prison, but he still knew very little.

“Well,” Stiles said, “in the old days, before we were seen as evil, or whatever, every village had a witch they’d go to for help. Healing spells, luck, safe travels - whatever. And even after witchcraft was banned, people kept the tradition alive; they just operated in secret. This - ” Stiles gestured around at the apartment, “ - belonged to my grandmother. She kept a fabric store downstairs as a cover.” He smiled briefly and added, “Now I’m doing the same.”

“That’s…” Derek wasn’t sure what to say; brave? Stupid? Dangerous? “Why don’t you just get a license?”

Stiles’ smile vanished. “That’s a story for another day,” he said lightly, but Derek felt them teetering on the edge of a cliff, danger in Stiles’ words. He watched Stiles lean forward and take a cookie, eating it almost mechanically. “Anyway,” Stiles said after a moment, mouth full, “what’s the deal with your sister?”

Derek shrugged, not really wanting to get into it. “I haven’t seen her since I was ten,” he told Stiles, keeping it simple. “I’d like to know if she’s alive.”

“That’s a long time,” Stiles remarked. “You think she’s in the area?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said despondently. “Maybe she’s gone underground. She could be dead.”

Stiles watched Derek for a moment, his amber eyes soft in the afternoon light. “I’ll do my best,” he said gently. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll give it a shot.”

Derek closed his eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he said again, heart heavy. He didn’t really expect anything to come of it - after all he’d been through, he doubted that Laura had fared the system any better, but who knew? She was older than him - she’d had four more years of experience at being a were than he had, more training. 

“You want another cookie?” Stiles asked, sympathy weighing his voice.

“No, thank you,” Derek sighed, wrinkling his nose when Stiles shook the plate at him. Stiles rattled the plate more fiercely and Derek sighed again, stretching out a hand - only to notice the time on the clock on the wall. He cursed, jerking his hand back. 

“Whoa,” Stiles said, his eyes widening. “It’s all right, man; you don’t have to have another.”

“No - I’m late for work,” Derek said, heaving himself to his feet. “I have to go.”

Stiles leapt to his feet as well, looking concerned. “You want a ride? I - “ He cut himself off, scowling. “Fuck, sorry, my jeep’s been in the shop for a month. I keep forgetting.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said, barely remembering to grab his knife bag off the floor before heading for the stairs. 

“Wait, wait,” Stiles said, and Derek paused, turning to look at him with a frown. Stiles moved quickly, grabbing one of the bottles of liquid off a shelf, then deftly plucking a number of leaves off a nearby plant. He cupped the leaves in his palm and dribbled a few drops from the bottle - Derek’s nostrils flared; it smelled like mint - and then Stiles ground his hands together, crushing the leaves and oil between his palms. “Here,” he said, and before Derek could pull back, Stiles dabbed the oil onto the backs of Derek’s hands. He grinned at Derek. “For fast travels.”

“Thanks,” Derek said dubiously. He sniffed his hand; more mint, and something sharp and green. He looked at Stiles, who looked pleased with himself. “I’ll - see you soon.”

Stiles nodded. “See you soon!”

Derek gave him one last look and then left, hurriedly heading down the stairs and slipping out the door of the shop. He tried to ignore the way the spots of oil on his hands felt weirdly warm on his skin; how was it even supposed to work? He remembered, uncomfortably, that he wasn’t even supposed to have anything to do with magic; Erica would be pissed if she found out, and the chances of her being at the restaurant when he got there were alarmingly high. Derek sighed and moved to rub the oil off onto his pants - when he realized he was already three blocks from Stiles’ shop.

Derek stopped walking, looking around in alarm. How - He looked at his hands, the small oily spots gleaming in the sunlight. He took a cautious step and the world seemed to warp a little, like a curtain pulled back. It made his skin crawl...but he was late. After another moment of hesitation, Derek began walking again, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, and when he got to work three minutes later, he went into the bathroom and washed his hands, and he didn’t say a word to anyone.

-

Derek didn’t sleep. When he could sleep, his sleep was deep and usually dreamless, and hardly anything could wake him, but getting to sleep, now - that was the problem. Most nights, Derek didn’t even bother trying; he’d watch tv until the sun began to rise, and then he might get into bed and close his eyes for a while, but it was mostly pointless. He got two, maybe three hours every night, and he felt like shit most of the time, but he’d been like this since he was a kid, and no amount of human-strength sleeping pills could put him to sleep.

Drinking helped a little. Derek wasn’t technically supposed to drink while he was on parole, but Erica turned a blind eye to it. Once in awhile he’d get a drink off the bar at work, but drinks were expensive there even with the employee discount, and even less frequently he’d go out with some of the other staff after their shifts ended - he liked Boyd, and Isaac wasn’t bad company either - but most of the time if he did go out, there was a dive bar close to his apartment building that was friendly to supernaturals, and even if Derek wasn’t really out, it was nice to be among his fellow outcasts. Even better: it was mostly locals, and low-key at that - no fights, no yelling. Most of the time, Derek brought a book with him and found a corner booth he could back himself into. It was easy enough to pass a few hours like that before going home and - sometimes - getting some sleep. 

He had Tuesdays and Thursdays off, so sometimes he went to the bar a little earlier than he usually did. It was a different crowd earlier in the evenings; when Derek got off work, usually past midnight, it was people like him just getting off second shift and wanting a drink before heading home - them and the diehard alcoholics - but closer to nine or ten, it was a younger crowd, a little more rambunctious. Still, the bar was never crowded.

This particular Thursday was a couple days after he’d seen Stiles, and something about meeting him - and the relative success of the last full moon, maybe - had Derek feeling...daring. There were quite a few people in the bar when he came in, but most of them were in booths or at tables, only a few patrons at the far end of the bar itself, so when the bartender - Tracy, Derek thought her name was - came over and asked him, “The usual?” Derek took a deep breath and asked, “Can you make it - under the moon?”

“Oh?” Tracy said, smiling. “About time.”

“I - what?” Derek said, caught off guard.

She winked at him, eyes flashing gold. “Secret’s safe with me,” she said, and hustled off to make his drink. Derek waited, feeling a little flustered; did she mean she’d known he was a werewolf? Occasional control issues aside, he thought he was pretty good at concealing what he was; his foster parents had done their best to beat the wolf out of him - literally. And yet, two people in two weeks had figured him out? Maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. 

When Tracy returned, sliding a glass of whisky across to him, he asked her, voice low, “Is it that obvious?”

“Not really,” she told him, smiling. “I just pick up on things, working here.”

That made Derek feel a little bit better; he took his drink and found himself a booth in the back, where he set his book down on the table, then looked at his drink. It didn’t look any different than usual, but when he lifted the glass and took a cautious sniff, he could smell, under the harsh burn of the alcohol, the sickly-sweet smell of wolfsbane. It wasn’t the lethal kind - or hopefully wasn’t, anyway - but it’d give him a buzz that was supposed to mimic the way humans felt when they got drunk. He’d never had it before, never daring to order it at a bar, all the parties he’d gone to in high school too clean-nosed to have it. Some of his fellow inmates had been able to procure it somehow, but when it wasn’t diluted by alcohol it made people strange, out of control. Derek didn’t want to lose control; he just wanted to fall asleep a little easier.

Derek took a sip and found that he although he could smell it, it didn’t taste like wolfsbane at all, just the familiar smoky, peaty taste of his usual whisky. Glancing up, Derek found Tracy watching him; he raised the glass to her and she nodded, turning away with a smile. Maybe it was stupid to have been so worried about the whole thing.

Feeling strangely content, Derek stretched out his legs and enjoyed his book and drink. He could feel the wolfsbane kicking in as he slowly drained the glass, warmth creeping through his limbs. It was a nice feeling; he wished he’d tried it earlier. 

More people filtered in and out of the bar. Derek lifted his head to watch them at first, but the whisky made him complacent, comfortable; he tucked himself into his book instead, only vaguely tuned in to the ebb and flow of the bar around him. It came as a major shock to him when someone slapped their hands down on the table at his booth and exclaimed, “Derek!”

Derek came out of his book with a jerk of his head so hard he nearly smacked it against the back of the booth. Stiles was standing there grinning at him. “Stiles?” Derek said, confused. Stiles lived on the other side of the city; what was he doing here? 

“Hey man!” Stiles said. He looked inexplicably delighted. “You live around here?”

Derek nodded, still confused. “You…?”

“I’m out with some friends,” Stiles said, gesturing toward a table across the bar, where a group of what looked like mostly guys were gathered. “Hey, you want to join us?”

“Oh,” Derek said. “Um - no, thank you.” Seeing Stiles was awkward enough; he didn’t really feel like sharing his evening with a group of strangers and a witch he had a crush on. 

“You sure?” Stiles asked, his face falling a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Derek said, trying to convey that he too had plenty of room. 

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Well - I’m glad I ran into you. I realized I never got your number, and I think I found a spell I can use to try and find your sister.”

Derek glanced around warily at this, but no one was paying them any attention. “You think?” he asked, trying not to get his hopes up.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, grinning again. “If you want to stop by the shop anytime this week, I can get it set up. How does that sound?”

“It - good,” Derek replied. “It sounds good.” 

“Good,” Stiles said, and the way he smiled at Derek had Derek struggling not to shiver, the sudden, fierce memory of the way Stiles had brushed his fingers against Derek’s jaw the first time they met springing to his mind. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to…” Maybe it was the wolfsbane, maybe it was just - just him, but as Stiles bent down to look at the book in Derek’s hands, it was all Derek could do not to grab him by the collar and kiss him. “...Matter and Memory, Henri Bergson.” Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Light reading?”

“I like philosophy,” Derek said defensively. 

“Interesting,” Stiles said, straightening. He said it with great inflection, like it really was. “A facet I never would have expected from you.” He grinned at Derek again. “Well, I’ll leave you alone. Enjoy your philosophy.”

“You too,” Derek said, flustered, then grimaced to himself as Stiles walked off across the bar, rejoining his friends with a shout. “Fuck,” he added, with great feeling, watching one of the guys sling his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and and knock their foreheads together. Derek sighed. 

He’d been somewhat popular in high school due to his looks, but he’d never really figured out how to talk to people. Then and now, he mostly just kept to himself, scared people would find out he was a were and hate him for it - hurt him for it like they did the rest of his family. Stiles hadn’t been bothered by it, Derek thought, his eyes flickering back to Stiles’ table, where he and his friends were doing shots. He said he knew other werewolves; maybe some of them were over there. Maybe Derek should have accepted his invitation and gone over, but it’d be weird to go over now.

Derek sighed again and tried to return his attention to his book, but with the increasing noise level in the bar and the thoughts filtering through his head, it was proving hard to focus - especially, as Stiles had jokingly pointed out, it wasn’t exactly easy reading. He found his eyes wandering from the page, keeping tabs on the other patrons - but admittedly mostly Stiles’ group. There were five of them, not including Stiles, two girls and three guys all around the same age as Stiles, and it was clear from the way they interacted with each other that they knew each other well. 

Derek watched them a little wistfully as he started on his second glass of whisky. Off the top of his head, he couldn’t think of anyone he could call a friend - Braeden, maybe, but he hadn’t heard from her in weeks. Other than her, though, he had no friends in the city, no one who even remotely cared about him. Erica might be the exception to that, but only because it was her job to keep tabs on him. Derek sighed. It didn’t usually bother him, but every so often he couldn’t help but feel lonely.

By the time Derek started on his third drink, he was feeling good and sorry for himself - and angry for feeling so pitiful, not to mention somewhat drunk. He gave up his book entirely, attention drifting to the television over the bar, which was showing a hockey game. He didn’t know much about hockey, but it was interesting, at least, and he got a little lost watching it, dazed. Being drunk - was he drunk? He had no frame of reference for how he was feeling right now - was...strange. His senses felt dulled, while at the same time, people sounded louder, laughter stabbing at his ears. The world was spinning, just a little, and he wasn’t completely sure he liked it.

At one point, he glanced around and was startled to see that the table previously occupied by Stiles and his friends was empty, and Stiles stood alone at the bar, talking to Tracy. Derek watched him wistfully, admiring the casual way Stiles leaned against the bar, propping his chin on his hand. Like he knew he was being watched, Stiles glanced his way, and Derek looked away quickly, staring guiltily up at the television. He’d been caught, though; Derek was aware of movement in his periphery, and then Stiles was standing next to his booth, looking faintly amused.

“You’re still here,” Stiles said, and Derek could only nod dumbly, too embarrassed to admit he came here because he couldn’t sleep. “Can I join you?”

Derek swallowed, startled. “What about your friends?”

“They all have to work tomorrow,” Stiles replied. He shrugged, grinning a little. “I mean, so do I, but those are the perks of owning your own business, you know?” 

Derek nodded again. Stiles looked at him patiently, eyebrows rising, and Derek realized he was waiting for an invitation. “You can sit,” he said belatedly, cheeks warming. 

“Thanks,” Stiles said, sliding easily into the space across the table. It wasn’t a large booth; Stiles’ knees knocked again Derek’s, his long legs somehow managing to fit. “By the way,” Stiles added, “sorry for earlier, if I put you on the spot inviting you to join us.”

“Oh,” Derek said. “It wasn’t - sorry. I’m just not good with people.”

Stiles snorted. “We’re twins, then.”

Derek scoffed at this. “You were just hanging out with a ton of people.”

“Yeah, but I’ve known them forever, so they don’t count,” Stiles replied. “Most of the time, I’m just - “ He flapped a hand around expressively. “ - useless. I’m always saying the wrong thing, or making a joke at the wrong time - useless. When I was in high school, people were always getting pissed at me because I just didn’t know when to shut up.”

“That’s different,” Derek told him. “Everyone sucks in high school.”

Stiles grinned. “Ain’t that the truth? Anyway,” he added, taking a long sip from his beer. “I guess it could be worse. We could be them.” He nodded toward the bar, where a middle-aged man was desperately trying - and failing - to hit on a younger woman. Derek grimaced in sympathy, though he couldn’t help but glance at Stiles, wondering how he’d react if Derek tried to flirt with him. Derek had basically no game - back to the whole “not good with people” thing - and he suspected that all the hookups and brief relationships he’d ever had were based off his looks, not his personality. And while hookups were fine, they weren’t really what he was looking for - not that he was sure he should be in a relationship with anyone, either, but still. 

Stiles looked at him, his eyes bright and curious. “You come here often?”

“I try not to,” Derek said, and Stiles snorted. “You’re far from home.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed cheerfully. “One of my friends lives down the block and he just got a new job, so we were celebrating.”

“Oh,” Derek said. Then, carefully, “They left...and you stayed?”

Stiles grinned, taking another swig of his beer and leaning his chin on his hand. “Not ready for bed yet. You?”

Derek shook his head. He’d be lucky if he got to bed before the sun came up. “Where’s your familiar?” he asked curiously. 

“At home,” Stiles said. “Probably getting into all the shit he knows he’s supposed to stay out of. I can summon him to me if I need him, but...some people get weird when they see familiars in public. It’s easier to keep him at home.”

Derek nodded again; he understood perfectly well. 

“Anyway,” Stiles said. “What’s with all the tattoos?”

Derek stilled. He usually wore long sleeves to cover his arms, but the bar was warm, and he’d pushed his sleeves up without even thinking about it, exposing the heavy swathes of ink that covered his forearms. One of his cellmates had been a tattoo artist in the real world; he’d said he didn't want to get rusty, and Derek, uncaring, had let himself be his canvas. It was stupid then and it was still stupid now, but he wasn't getting rid of any of them; they were his reminder to himself: Don't fuck up again.

“Okay, see?” Stiles said after a moment, when Derek didn’t reply. “There’s me saying the wrong thing. Sorry - it’s none of my business.”

“No,” Derek said. He drew in a deep breath; it was better to be upfront about it. “I got them in prison.”

Stiles paused with his beer bottle raised halfway to his mouth. “Prison,” he echoed. Derek nodded, his jaw tightening. Stiles set his bottle back down on the table and looked at Derek thoughtfully. “Why were you in prison?”

Derek exhaled slowly. “First degree murder.” 

Stiles’ expression didn’t change. He watched Derek for a long moment and then asked, “Did you do it?”

Derek shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I was framed. The conviction was tossed on appeal.”

“Figured,” Stiles said, tilting his head to one side. “You’re what, thirty?”

“Twenty-nine,” Derek said, a little confused. “Why - ”

“First degree murder sentences start at twenty-five years and go up to life - or death,” Stiles replied. “If they thought you did it, you’d still be in jail.” Seeing the confusion growing on Derek’s face, Stiles added, “I’m the son of a cop. I know this stuff.”

“Oh,” Derek said, a little thrown by this. 

“So how long were you in for?” Stiles asked. “Takes a while for an appeal, right?”

Derek nodded slowly. “It took four years for my first and second trial.” He hesitated, but he wanted to be truthful, so he told Stiles, “I had to serve time for perjury. Two years. I’m on parole now.” 

Stiles waved this aside with a literal wave of his hand. “Peanuts, man. I mean - I’m sure being in prison wasn’t a cakewalk, but it’s not something you should be ashamed of.”

Derek gave him a startled look. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“We all make mistakes,” Stiles shrugged. “But if you were framed, then it’s not your fault.”

"You don't know me," Derek said slowly. "Why would you believe that?"

“If you were acquitted, then there must have been compelling evidence,” Stiles said. He looked at his hands before adding, voice quiet, “And anyway, I know nightmares.” 

Derek opened his mouth and then closed it, watching Stiles fiddle with the label on his beer bottle. He had a strong urge to reach across the table and touch Stiles’ hand, but didn’t quite dare. Instead, trying to lighten the atmosphere, he asked, “You don’t have any tattoos?”

Stiles snorted softly. “No,” he said. “I pass out at the sight of needles.”

“I don’t know,” Derek said dryly. “Might make it easier if you’re passed out.”

Stiles tilted his head back and gave a shout of laughter, and Derek couldn’t help but smile a small, secret smile, pleased with himself. “You may have a point,” Stiles conceded, and he grinned at Derek, adding, “You’ve got a nice smile.”

Derek’s face went warm. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “I - thanks.” He went for his glass to distract himself, but found it empty. He probably shouldn’t keep drinking - he had to work the next day, after all - but he wasn’t quite ready to leave, so instead, he took a chance and asked, “Do you want another drink? On me?”

Stiles looked at him, still smiling, but the way he smiled changed, his eyes darkening with purpose. “Yeah,” he said intently. “I’d take another drink.”

-

Derek woke slowly the next morning. He could feel warm sunlight on his back, and a small heart beating fast next to his ear; when he lifted his head and managed to crank one eye open, he saw Stiles’ familiar sitting on the pillow next to him, watching him placidly with beady black eyes.

“Hi,” Derek said to him, and the woodchuck blinked, then scrubbed its paws over its face. 

“Don’t mind him,” Stiles said, striding into the room. He wore sweatpants low on his hips and nothing on top, his hair wet and slicked back from his face like he'd just gotten out of the shower; he looked so good that Derek may have actually salivated a little. "He’s a little creep."

Derek lifted a hand and offered it to the woodchuck, which sniffed at his fingers disinterestedly. Derek looked at Stiles, who was digging around in his dresser, and was greatly disappointed when Stiles shrugged on a t-shirt. He was a little mollified when Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss him, deep and exploratory. 

"Want some breakfast?" Stiles asked when they pulled apart. Derek wanted to say no, how about we just stay in bed, but his stomach grumbled at that point, so he just nodded and unfolded himself from the bed, only pausing to tug on his pants and shirt.

It always took him a while to wake in the morning - even in prison, he'd been mostly nonfunctional for the first half hour or so, though he was capable of reacting instinctively to a threat, which had saved him a couple of times. Stiles, on the other hand, seemed to be a morning person; he didn't move so much as bound, his body tight with pent up energy. Whatever; it gave Derek something to focus on, gazing dreamily at Stiles' taut ass as he followed him down the hall.

In the kitchen, Stiles directed him to a chair, and as Derek sat he was startled to see food already laid out over the table. "You made all this?" he asked, managing to get at least that thought in order.

"Mhm," Stiles hummed, pressing a cup of coffee into his hands - the mug was hot pink and said World's Best Grandma on it. Definitely a morning person, Derek thought, taking a sip. He ate slowly, watching Stiles, who didn’t each much, fiddling with his phone.

“Do you make a spread like this for all your hookups?” Derek asked eventually.

Stiles looked up from his tablet and gave him a sly grin. “Only the ones I really enjoyed,” he said, his gaze slipping down Derek’s bare chest. 

Derek grinned lazily, the heat of anticipation settling into his bones. “What do I get for a second round?” he asked. 

Stiles’ smile widened. “I’m sure I could think of an appropriate reward,” he said, which was how Derek ended up fucking him over the table, every thrust pushing him up onto his toes and rattling all the dishes. Stiles was just as good at bottoming as he'd been at topping last night; he was responsive and tight and loud. Derek didn't usually get off on noise, but Stiles was so clearly enjoying himself that Derek couldn't help but work harder to get him even louder. There was something electric about him; it vibrated in his scent, called to Derek like a siren. He'd never had this much fun.

And then - it went wrong somehow. Derek relaxed too much, maybe, let himself get too into it - something shifted and he felt his control begin to slip, ripping from his grasp like a kite caught by the wind. Stiles’ smell shifted with the change in Derek’s senses; it went dark, lush, intoxicating. It made Derek want to sink his teeth into his neck, pull more pretty little noises from him - and Derek had to fight the instinct, because there were fangs in his mouth, not blunt teeth, and he’d hurt Stiles if he did. Don’t let it win, he thought desperately, and his fingers flexed reflexively, digging into Stiles’ hips, and Stiles said, “Ow, fuck!”

Derek froze. His fingers curled against Stiles - his fingers, tipped with claws. He let go very slowly, eliciting a hiss from Stiles, and began to back away as Stiles pushed himself upright, pulling his shirt out of the way. Derek stared in horror at his claws, wet with blood. Panic roared in his ears. “Fuck,” Stiles said again, gingerly touching his hip. Derek could see the wounds, five punctures already bleeding. There would be another five on the other hip, matching. “You really - ” 

“I’m sorry,” Derek said hoarsely, still backing away. He managed to put his claws away, but his hands were still bloodstained; they shook so badly he could barely pull up his pants.

Stiles glanced over at him and his face changed, his brow furrowing. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “They’re not deep, you just - “

“I have to leave,” Derek said. He could barely hear himself over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. “I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Stiles said, taking a step toward him. “Derek - ”

“This was a mistake,” Derek breathed and, to his even greater shame, he turned heel and ran. 

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, hurrying after him. “Don’t - it’s okay! Come on, wait, please - ”

But Derek, fully panicking now, barrelled down the back stairs and out the back door, skidding down the alleyway. He was barefoot and disheveled, but it didn’t matter; he’d hurt Stiles, the first person he’d connected to in any way in years. He’d hurt him. Derek ran, shame and horror making his face burn hot, his heart hammering in his chest. It repeated over and over in his head: he hurt Stiles, he hurt Stiles, he hurt Stiles.

Halfway home he stepped on something sharp; it jabbed into him with every step, but Derek didn’t stop to pull it out. He deserved it; he was twenty-nine years old, a werewolf all his life, and he couldn’t control himself. He was an embarrassment to himself, to his family, to werewolves everywhere. He was from a pack so old their name was written in medieval manuscripts, the last of a line that had survived for a millennium and a half, and he couldn’t fucking touch someone without hurting them. Pathetic.

He didn’t slow until he was a block from his apartment, too upset, amped up. He stopped outside his building, leaning up against the warm brick wall while he waited to get his breath back, his mind oscillating violently between guilt and pained recollection of their brief time together. It had been fun, and he’d been looking forward to - wanted - more.

Derek ground his teeth together and headed up to his apartment, not relaxing until he was inside, safe in his own space, but then he stood in the middle of his living room for awhile, not sure what to do with himself; he usually wasn't awake this early.

Derek shrugged and headed for his bedroom; he'd learned to sleep through anything in prison including, once, a small-scale riot. Or - no. Derek turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom instead. Shower first, then bed. It felt amazing; Derek scrubbed his fingers through his hair, relaxing further as the hot water erased the scent of Stiles. Brushing his teeth was even better, and by the time Derek crawled into his own bed, he was barely panicking anymore, just a little sad and lonelier than ever.

-

Somewhere on the floor, Derek’s phone began vibrating and he jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. For one terrifying moment, Derek was sure it was Stiles, but he couldn’t recall ever giving Stiles his number. When he managed to flop himself over the side of the bed and pull his phone out of his jeans, he saw it was Boyd, and he also saw it was 3:32 and he was half an hour late for work.

“Fuck,” Derek said again, with great feeling. He put the phone to his ear. “Boyd, I’m - ”

“You’re late,” Boyd said, in that infinitely calm way he had. 

“I know,” Derek said. “I’m sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.” This, at least, was true, but it was a weak excuse.

Boyd was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “All right. You’ve never been late before, so I’ll let it slide. Just get over here; we’ve got a function tonight.”

“I will,” Derek promised, hauling himself upright with a wince. “I’ll be right there.”

“Good,” Boyd said. He paused, and then added, “I won’t tell Erica, either.”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. Shit, Erica. She could make life hell for him if he missed work too many times. “Thank you.”

“Just get over here,” Boyd repeated, and hung up.

Derek prised himself out of bed and got ready for work, all the while trying not to think about Stiles. Every time he did, his heart started hammering in his chest, guilt making his palms prickle with sweat. Maybe he should be grateful that he hadn’t really hurt him, but he shouldn’t have hurt him at all. He should know better.

It was a relief to get to work. Boyd didn’t say anything to him, but nodded to him across the kitchen as he hurried in. Derek could lose himself in his work, take out his aggression and guilt on the vegetables that needed prepping. Maybe his knife work was a little more rough than usual, but most of it was going into a soup anyway; no one would be the wiser.

-

Derek didn’t go see Stiles. He didn’t call and apologize, either, even though he knew he needed to. Derek was good at avoidance; it was one of the things his therapist was trying to work on with him, but he avoided that too. He felt immensely guilty for hurting Stiles, along with great shame for not being able to control himself. All he could think about was how disappointed his mom would have been; his memories of her were vague, but he could still see her face, her tired frown. He went to the library and snuck into the werewolf row of the reference section and guiltily thumbed through a few self-help books, jumping nervously whenever anyone else came into the room. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared; his kind were still looked down upon, still viewed unfavorably in the eyes of the law - and there were a lot of laws regulating werewolf behavior. Derek was scared of being out of control, scared someone would notice and he’d have to go back to prison.

Derek avoided the bar, too. He didn’t exactly expect to see Stiles there again, but then, he hadn’t expected to see Stiles there the first time. He went to work, went home, worked out, tried to sleep - the old routine. It worked fine, for a given measure of “fine,” but it was monotonous. After two weeks, he went back to the bar. He figured if Stiles had tried going back to find him - and that was a big if - he’d have given up by now. 

Even so, Derek didn’t go in right away; he paused outside the front door, cautiously peering in through one of the front windows to make sure the place was clear. It was; it was after midnight on a Monday, and the bar was nearly empty, just a few locals sitting at the bar top. Derek heaved a sigh of relief and entered, finding a seat for himself at the bar. Tracy was working; she grinned at him. 

“Been a while,” she said. “The usual? Under the moon?”

“No,” Derek sighed. “Just a beer. Cheapest IPA you have on tap.”

Tracy smiled knowingly and went off to pour his pint. Derek sat tensely, waiting for something to happen, but as the minutes passed and Stiles didn’t magically appear, he relaxed. After half an hour, he felt confident enough to pull out his book - Tolkien this week; the French philosophy was on the back burner for the moment - and let himself get lost in Middle Earth. His memories of home, of his family, were few and far between, but he remembered his dad reading The Hobbit to him at night, Laura perched on the end of his bed, listening. 

He looked up when Tracy moved in front of him and cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” he said, looking at his glass, still half full. She raised her eyebrows significantly, her gaze moving past him, and Derek turned.

Stiles stood behind him, barefoot and in what looked like sleeping clothes, a pair of boxers and a threadbare t-shirt that said Beacon Hills High Debate Team across the chest. He looked at Derek and, to Derek’s confusion, he didn’t look angry. He looked tired, his hair flat on one side, like he’d been sleeping - and considering it was past one in the morning, maybe he had been. They stared at each other for a while. 

“Are you sleepwalking?” Derek asked after a while. 

“No,” Stiles said, and some irritation pushed past the weariness on his face. “I was asleep, but now I’m not. Because of you.”

“Me?” Derek said, bewildered. “Why me?”

“Because you ran off on me,” Stiles said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I mean, I know you were freaking out, but you never came back so I could do the spell for your sister, and I can tell it’s important to you. I just - I just wanted to tell you that I still owe you that spell, and I’m still going to do it if you want me to, so...let me help you.”

Derek looked around the quiet bar, embarrassed. “I hurt you,” he said softly, and Stiles’ eyebrows drew together. “I lost control,” he added in almost a whisper, shame heating his cheeks. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Stiles’ face softened. “I know that,” he said. “It happens - seriously. I’ve lost control too.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment. Stiles was trying to make him feel better, but he also wasn’t just saying things; he didn’t seem at all bothered by Derek’s admission. “Does it still hurt?”

Stiles shook his head and pushed his boxers down just enough so Derek could see one of the marks, now just a slightly darker blemish on his skin. “See? It really wasn’t anything. It startled me more than than it hurt.” He dropped his hand and gave Derek an encouraging look. “So? Can I help you?”

Derek hesitated. “You’re really - you’re not bothered?” Stiles shook his head. “Okay,” he said. He hesitated again, then added, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said. “I promise. Come in this week. Anytime is fine.”

"Thank you," Derek said and then, as Stiles yawned widely, told him, “I think you need to get home.”

"You're probably right," Stiles said, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Someone woke me up."

"How did you know I was here, anyway?” Derek asked. “A spell?”

Stiles nodded again. “Had to hope you came here often. Worked, didn’t it?” He grinned wearily at Derek.

Derek watched Stiles for a moment, a little disconcerted by the way the other occupants of the bar were staring at him. "Do you want me to walk you home?"

"Sure," Stiles said, yawning again. "If you want." 

"Let me just pay my tab," Derek said, and Stiles nodded, waiting patiently while Derek got the bartender's attention and passed her a ten dollar bill.

"Old school," said Stiles as they left the bar, and when Derek gave him a bewildered look, he clarified, "Cash. You hardly ever see people use it these days."

"I don't think that's true," Derek said uncomfortably. "It's good for emergencies."

"That's what my dad always said," Stiles nodded as they walked down the street.

"Are your feet okay?" Derek asked.

"Why, you willing to carry me?" Stiles asked, shooting him a quick grin. "I'm fine. I'm watching where I'm going, don't worry."

It took some time, but they made it to Stiles' place without incident, though rather than head for the shop door, Stiles went for a narrow alleyway between his building and the next, where there was a side door. “Home sweet home,” Stiles sighed, patting at his hips as if looking for his keys, only to remember he was wearing boxers. "Ah."

"Locked out?" Derek asked.

Stiles shot him another grin. "Not me," he said, holding his hand over the deadbolt. Derek looked around uneasily, but the street was empty; after a moment, the lock flashed red-hot and the bolt turned with a dull thunk. “Success,” Stiles said smugly, turning the knob and tugging the door open. Beyond it, a flight of stairs went up to Stiles’ apartment, while a door to the right presumably led into Stiles’ shop. 

Derek nodded. "Okay," he said, unable to think of anything else. "Have a good night."

“Thanks for walking with me,” Stiles said, and turned toward the door - only to swing back around to look at Derek, a thoughtful look on his face. "Do you sleep well?" he asked abruptly.

Derek stared at him, startled. "Why?"

Stiles smiled grimly. "I recognize the tense shoulders of a fellow poor sleeper," he said. He jerked his head up at the building. "You want to stay tonight?"

Derek blinked. "With you?"

"If you want," Stiles said. "Or I've got a spare bedroom. I can make you something to help you sleep."

Derek hesitated. He looked at Stiles, who watched him patiently, no trace of an ulterior motive in his expression. He didn't know why, but something in him desperately wanted to trust Stiles; maybe it was the way Stiles kept welcoming into his home, or the unabashed way he’d told Derek he was a witch, or the way he’d show up tonight, worried he’d offended Derek and still willing to help him -

"Okay," Derek said quietly. "I'll take your spare room." He wanted to sleep with Stiles again for sure, but he didn't think he should - not right now, at least.

"All right," Stiles said easily, and headed upstairs. Derek followed him, raising his eyebrows when Stiles didn't have to turn any lights on; they flared on by themselves, not too bright, just enough to light to see by. 

"Shoes off," Stiles commanded, pointing to the pile by the door. Derek obeyed, leaving his sneakers lined up neatly next to the jumble of Stiles’ shoes. He followed Stiles down the long hallway, past the bathroom and his room, to the very end of the hall, where there was a small bedroom. A dark room opposite leaked the rich smell of plants and spices and the tang of magic. "My workshop," Stiles said with a yawn. He waved his hand toward the guest bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable while I whip up a potion."

Derek didn't like the sound of that, thinking guiltily of his parole and wondering if it'd be detectable on a drug test, but he stepped into the room as Stiles disappeared into his workshop. Feeling awkward, Derek hurriedly stripped off his pants and socks and climbed into the bed. It was comfortable, at least, and didn't really smell much like anything except the atmospheric smell of Stiles' apartment; apparently no one had used it for quite some time.

The longer he sat there listening to Stiles move around in his workshop, the more Derek began to regret accepting the invitation to stay the night. Stiles was, after all, still mostly a stranger to him, and this was weird. This was a weird thing to do. Derek wondered what the least insulting way to get out this would be. 

He was still trying to figure it out when Stiles appeared in the doorway, holding a mug that was putting out golden steam, and something must have shown on his face because Stiles paused there, his brow furrowing, and said, “Do you want to leave?”

Derek tried not to look guilty. “This is just - odd to me,” he said haltingly. 

“Fair enough,” Stiles said, shrugging a little.

“It’s not weird to you?”

“I’m the one who invited you in here,” Stiles reminded him, smiling wryly. “I deal with so much weird shit that it didn’t occur to me this might be weird. I’m not going to be offended if you want to leave.”

“This is just - ” Derek fished for a better explanation, but failed. “Weird,” he finished lamely. “Being in someone else’s home. I just...I don’t relax around people. Easily.”

Stiles’ face relaxed. “I get it,” he said, stepping into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Derek. “It’s not easy.” 

Derek watched him for a long moment and then stretched a hand out toward the mug Stiles held. “Is this for me?” he asked.

Stiles’ eyebrows rose; he held the cup up in the air, out of Derek’s easy reach. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

Derek nodded; he wasn’t sure why, exactly, except that he found something about the way Stiles carried himself inexplicably reassuring.

“Okay,” Stiles said easily, and passed him the mug. Derek sniffed at it - he couldn’t be too cautious - and smelled a soft mix of sweet plants - chamomile and currant and a touch of honey. He couldn’t smell magic in it at all, which was odd, but the golden steam curling out of the cup seemed proof enough of some kind of tampering. It didn’t smell poisonous, though, so with Stiles watching him, Derek took a long sip. He felt the heat pool in his stomach and slowly begin to radiate outward; it was a bit like being drunk, except he felt content, his head already beginning to feel heavy. 

“There you go,” Stiles said, sounding pleased. “Finish it up.”

Derek drank the rest of the tea obediently and sank back into the pillows, his body simultaneously heavy and weightless. “That’s…powerful stuff,” he said. 

Stiles smiled faintly. “Works like a charm,” he said.

Derek lifted a hand that felt as though it weighed fifty pounds, touching Stiles’ cheek. “Why’d you invite me in?” he asked.

“I told you; I know nightmares,” Stiles said solemnly. “We all deserve a break once in awhile.”

"Thanks," Derek said quietly, fighting the urge to let his eyes drift shut. 

"Sleep," Stiles said softly. "That's what's it's for. Just go to sleep, Derek."

"Sorry I bailed on you," Derek mumbled.

"Don't worry about it," Stiles said, and that was the last thing Derek heard before he drifted to sleep.

-

Derek woke slowly the next morning - late morning, judging by the angle of the light coming through the windows. He didn’t move immediately, taking in his surroundings; the room was cool and quiet, an open window bringing in a crisp fall breeze and the smell of the city. The rest of the apartment was quiet too, although the soft sound of paper rustling in the direction of the living room indicated that Stiles might be in there. 

Derek rubbed his hands over his face and levered himself up out of the bed, reaching for his jeans. He wasn’t sure what he was doing there - what he wanted, what he expected. This, and everything else he’d been doing lately - getting drunk, involving himself in things that weren’t any of his business, just fucking talking to people - it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the way he usually acted. But when he quietly walked down the hallway and paused in the living room doorway, he knew why. 

Stiles sat on the couch, his groundhog familiar sprawled in a patch of sunlight next to him. He hadn’t noticed Derek yet, attention focused on a sheaf of papers in his hands, a pair of dark-rimmed glasses only enhancing the attraction Derek felt for him. He was one of the few people to find out Derek was a werewolf and not react with disgust or scorn - no, he’d seemed almost delighted. Derek looked at him wistfully, at the long, elegant line of his neck, and thought of the full moon, of chasing Stiles through woods and glades. He thought if he asked, maybe if they got to know each other better, Stiles wouldn’t say no, and that thought terrified Derek a little - and made his blood run hot. 

He cleared his throat. Stiles jumped about a foot off the couch, startling Bernard, who scrambled onto Stiles’ lap. “Jesus,” Stiles said, dropping the papers onto the coffee table. “You’re like a freakin’ ghost, man.”

“Sorry,” Derek said.

Stiles grinned, gesturing at him to come and sit, which Derek did, carefully leaving space between them. Stiles completely disregarded this, twisting around to look at him, his knee knocking against Derek’s. “How’d you sleep?” he asked intently. “Any dreams?”

Derek shook his head. “I feel good,” he said, which was unusual for him. He could survive on the little sleep he got each night, but he never felt all that great in the morning. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Stiles said. “I usually make something for myself, though much weaker - if I drank what I made you last night, I’d be out for a week.” He tilted his head to one side, looking at Derek for a moment before he continued, “It worked. I thought you’d be up before now, honestly.”

“I work evenings,” Derek told him. “I usually sleep late.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “You told me - the restaurant.”

Derek blinked. Had he told Stiles? Maybe the other night; he was still missing bits and pieces. Some of the shame came back as he remembered the other details that followed that night. Like he knew what Derek was thinking, Stiles said, his tone gentling, “Don’t worry about it, dude, seriously. Shit happens. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Derek said quietly. 

“You want some coffee?” Stiles asked. 

“I have to get to work soon,” Derek said reluctantly.

“Come on,” Stiles wheedled. “You don’t have time for a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

Derek wavered. He had more than an hour before he had to be at work, so he could stay; he wanted to stay. He didn’t have many people in his social circle; at this point in his life, Braeden was probably the closest to friend or family that he was going to get, and other than her, the only people he spoke to in a given week were Erica, his therapist, and a scattering of coworkers. He didn’t even know his neighbors in his apartment building. 

There was something about Stiles; they'd clicked in a way Derek never had with other people. When he was young, his mom used to talk about people she called kindred spirits - you'd know them anywhere, she'd said. Seeing them for the first time would be like seeing a friend you hadn't seen in years, instantly comfortable. He'd never had that, had to try so hard to make and keep friends, jumping from social circle to social circle, never quite fitting in any - too quiet for the jocks, too athletic for the nerds, disliked by the other werewolves for being the son of an alpha.

“Okay,” he surrendered. 

“You relax,” Stiles commanded, dumping Bernard off his lap and getting to his feet, gesturing forcefully at the couch. “I’ll get the coffee.”

Derek did as he was told, helplessly, as Stiles banged around in the kitchen. It was a comfortable couch, very old and worn-in, but Derek sat up, leaning forward to look at the papers spread all over the coffee table; newspapers, mostly, folded in half, things circled here and there, with books mixed in - old books, leather bound and cracked, and new ones too. Derek tilted his head to read the spine of a shiny new paperback: Hexes for the Twenty-First Century.

He straightened when Stiles came back into the living room with a steaming mug - the grandma one again, which he handed to Derek. “Black,” Stiles said. “Right?”

“Right,” Derek said, curling his fingers around the warm porcelain. 

Stiles picked up Bernard and sat back down. He was silent for a moment, watching Derek, before he abruptly asked, “Do you have a pack?”

“No,” Derek said. “I was raised human.” He sighed and looked down at his hand, curling his fingers into a fist. “They wouldn’t even acknowledge I was a werewolf.”

“Jeez,” Stiles said softly. “Your parents raised you like that?”

“No,” Derek said again, quieter. “Not my parents.”

Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion - and then his expression cleared as what Derek said sunk in. Derek looked at his hands again, his mouth thin. They sat in silence for a long moment, knees almost touching, and then Stiles said, “My mom was a witch too. She did what I do - making spells for the people in our neighborhood. She got caught when I was a kid. She went to prison, my dad lost his job. I got sent to a state school for - “ He grimaced, shrugging one shoulder expressively. “You know. People like us.”

Derek gave him a startled look, caught off guard by Stiles’ candidness, not to mention the unhappy nature of his story. “What happened to your mom?” he asked carefully.

“She died,” Stiles said simply. “Cancer. She didn’t make it to trial.” He sighed. On his lap, Stiles’ familiar sat up and nudged at his arm; Stiles stroked his head absently. 

Derek hesitated, not quite sure what to say; he’d heard the platitudes and condolences about his own family enough that he knew how wearisome they could be. “How long have you had him?” he asked instead, hoping to distract Stiles.

“This dude?” Stiles asked, poking Bernard in the stomach. “Since I was, I dunno, five, maybe. It was actually the first spell I ever learned; my mom taught me. I was so mad when he showed up.”

“Why?” Derek asked curiously.

“Because I wanted something cool!” Stiles said, laughing. “I was five - I wanted an eagle or a tiger or something awesome. My mom’s familiar was a secretary bird - you know what that is?” 

Derek shook his head, so Stiles pulled out his phone and found a photo; Derek raised his eyebrows, impressed at the stork-like legs and wickedly curved beak of the large bird. “But you got Bernard,” he said.

Stiles sighed. “But I got Bernard,” he agreed. His face softened. “We’ve been through a lot together, huh, buddy?” And to Derek’s surprise, Bernard looked up at Stiles and nodded.

“He - understands?” Derek asked, startled.

“‘Course,” Stiles said, as Bernard clambered off his lap and dropped off the couch, waddling out of sight. “He helps me with my spellwork; he has to. Speaking of,” he added, straightening, “you want to get started, see if we can find your sister?”

“Oh,” Derek said blankly, his stomach giving a nervous roll. “I - can’t. I need to get to work.”

“No worries,” Stiles said. “Can I do something, though?”

“Okay,” Derek said warily, his breath catching in his throat when Stiles shifted toward him, leaning in to kiss him. Derek didn’t pull away; he wasn’t sure he should kiss Stiles - but he wanted to. Stiles smelled so good it made Derek’s skin break into goosebumps, the electricity in his scent sharp and stinging, but that herbal earthiness underneath comforting, welcoming. His lips were soft and tasted faintly of coffee - if Derek hadn’t been holding a mug of his own in his hand, he might have pulled Stiles in closer, missing the heat of his skin. 

They pulled apart slowly, breathing softly. Stiles stared into Derek’s eyes, his gaze open and a little vulnerable. “You didn’t run away this time,” he said quietly. 

“No,” Derek agreed, his cheeks warming at the reminder as he set his mug on the table. The wolf was there - it was always there, pressing at his insides - but he had it under control today. 

Stiles snorted softly, amused, and then just like in their first encounter, he lifted his hand, gently brushing his fingers along Derek’s jaw in a gesture that felt to Derek a thousand times more intimate than the kiss they’d just shared. “Good,” he said, and Derek felt a hot thrill run through him. “I’d like to get to know you,” he added quietly. “If you’re interested.”

“Yes,” Derek said hoarsely. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Stiles repeated, and dipped in for another kiss, fiercer, his hands curling in the front of Derek’s shirt. Derek put his hands on Stiles’ hips, thumbs pressed against the sharp jut of Stiles’ hipbones and let himself enjoy it. It was a nice feeling, and when they pulled apart after this, Stiles’ cheeks were flushed; Derek found it entrancing. “You good?” Stiles asked, a little breathless.

“I need to get ready for work,” Derek said, which wasn’t what he meant to say, even if it was true - he needed to get back to his apartment to shower and get dressed before his shift - he couldn’t be late again.

“Oh,” Stiles said, looking a little disappointed. He hesitated before asking, “This isn’t running, right?”

“No,” Derek said firmly. “I enjoyed that.”

Stiles grinned, relieved. “I’ll let you go, then,” he said, taking a step back. “As long as it means you’re coming back.”

“I will,” Derek promised.

“Good,” Stiles said. He pulled his phone from his pocket and added, “Can I get your number? For, you know, reasons?” He gave Derek a mock-innocent look. 

Derek snorted. “Sure,” he said, and listed off his number, secretly pleased to have a reason to give it out.

“I’d offer you a ride home,” Stiles said, as they left his workshop and headed for the stairs, “but my car’s still getting work done.”

“So that’s why you crossed the city barefoot last night,” Derek said dryly.

“Twice,” Stiles agreed, leading him down the stairs to the side door. “I’ll see you soon?”

“I’ll stop by for the spell,” Derek nodded. 

Stiles looked a little disappointed. “Oh,” he said. “Okay. Well - I’ll see you then.”

Derek watched him turn toward the stairs, feeling like he was missing something. Stiles did want to see him again, right? Unless - oh. He was an idiot. Derek, who didn't have a plan, said, "Uh," and blinked desperately. "Do you - do you want to get dinner sometime?"

Stiles turned back toward him and frowned, which wasn't encouraging. He took a couple steps back in Derek's direction. "Are you serious?"

Derek's nerve failed him. "Never mind," he said, covering his dismay with gruffness. "I'll - "

"Whoa whoa whoa," Stiles said, waving his hands in front of him as a grin spread across his face. "You're not backing out of this one. You’re serious, though?”

“Yes,” Derek said, flustered. “Are - when are you free?"

"Most days," Stiles said immediately. "I mean, I’ve got this thing on Saturdays and Wednesdays, but that’s it."

"That's fine," Derek said wearily. "I’m off Mondays and Thursdays. Some Thursdays," he amended, thinking of his support group.

Stiles' face did something complicated Derek didn't follow. "Why don't you just come over after work?" he offered. "I'll make something."

"It'll probably be past midnight," Derek replied doubtfully. "Don’t you go to bed early?"

Stiles waved a hand. "Eh," he said, uncaring. "I sleep badly enough as it is. Might as well spend that time with you."

Derek stared at him, once again caught off guard by the way Stiles was so interested in him. He didn't get it; what was there about him to like? Stiles clearly lived a vibrant life full and friends and work and activity; Derek was an ex-con who couldn't remember to how to smile. What did Stiles see in him?

"Stop it," Stiles said, like he was in Derek's head. "Stop thinking so hard. I'll see you back here Friday night, does that work? One o'clock. Or - is that Saturday?"

"Saturday, I think," Derek said dryly.

"Saturday, then," Stiles said firmly, and surprised Derek even more by swaying right into his space and tilting his head for a long kiss, his hand settling heavily at the back of Derek's neck. Stiles was grinning when he pulled back, his eyes heavy and dark. "Saturday at one," he reminded Derek.

“Saturday at one,” Derek echoed, and surprised both himself and Stiles by leaning in to kiss him again. 

“I like that,” Stiles said breathlessly, when they pulled apart. “Keep that up.”

Derek struggled to hold back a smile as he left the alleyway, his heart beating excitedly in his chest. He hadn’t felt so...optimistic in a long time, buoyed by the fact that he hadn’t fucked things up with Stiles after all. 

The feeling carried him all the way back across the city, even though it took over an hour due to a late bus and heavy traffic. Even when he met Erica in the lobby of his building, her irritated expression couldn’t break his mood.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked peevishly. “You’re never not here in the morning.”

“I have a life,” Derek said, offended.

Erica rolled her eyes. “I told you, going to the gym isn’t a hobby,” she said, then narrowed her eyes at him. “But you weren’t at the gym. Where were you?”

Derek started to get defensive before realizing that telling the truth - or at least, a version of it - might be exactly what Erica would want from him. “I think I’ve met someone,” he admitted.

Erica’s irritation vanished, only to be replaced with delight. "I want details," she demanded. Admittedly - and horrifyingly - Derek could feel his face going red.

"There's nothing to tell," he said. "We've only seen each other a couple of times."

Erica smiled - a real, friendly smile, the kind that made Derek suspect she liked him as a friend, not just tolerated him just because he was one of her parolees. "That's great, Derek," she said, and there was no lie in her voice; she really meant it. "Hey - you know what you should do?"

"What?" Derek asked warily.

"You should come to the restaurant! We’ll take care of you!" Erica said brightly. Derek sighed. 

"I work there,” Derek reminded her.

“So you know the food’s good,” Erica retorted. “Come on.”

Derek hesitated. "You just want to spy on me."

Erica snorted. "I've already got myself well-ingrained in your life. How about this: I promise I won't be at the restaurant, whatever night you choose."

Derek hesitated again. It might be nice. "I'll ask him."

“I’ll tell Boyd,” Erica replied cheerfully. "Everything else good?"

Derek nodded.

"Good," she said. "Well - I'll check in in a couple of days. You let me know when you're thinking for dinner, all right?"

"I will," Derek promised.

Erica grinned sharply. "Keep yourself out of trouble," she said, heading for the front door. "I'll talk to you soon."

-

Every once in a blue moon, Derek didn’t spend his Thursday evenings off work at the bar, but at a small church near the library. There, in the basement, he could find a group of werewolves like himself - omegas, packless, a support group for those just as lost as he was. It’d been his therapist’s suggestion - one of the few suggestions of hers he’d actually listened to. She’d suggested that it might be beneficial to hear other omega’s experiences, and there’d be exercises in control. She’d even suggested that if he wanted to join a pack, they might be able to help him find one, but Derek wasn’t that optimistic; he knew no alpha would want him in their pack. His therapist meant the best, he knew, but she wasn’t a werewolf; she couldn't really understand that part of him, or how the world worked for him. 

Regardless, he’d come to appreciate the opportunity. The omegas there weren’t exactly his friends; there was a natural instinct not to trust omegas - they were the outcasts of the pack system, and to be an omega seemed to mean there was something wrong with you; why else wouldn’t you be in pack? Even as an omega himself, the instinct was hard to shake, and it was hard to make friends with them anyway, as members of the group came and went, there one meeting and not the next. It had been helpful, though; it got Derek out of the house and around other werewolves; at the very least, it helped him practice control, because there was nothing like a room full of omega tension to put his claws at his fingertips.

The evening mass was just finishing as Derek approached the church this evening; people were filtering out down the front steps, talking cheerfully as light spilled through the stained glass windows, staining their skin in a rainbow of colors. He made his way around the side of the building, where a side door stood ajar, and Derek steeled himself before stepping inside, always little nervous. 

The support session didn’t officially start for another five minutes, but there were plenty of people already inside; Derek counted a little less than twenty heads milling around, some grouped to talk, others standing alone. He looked instinctively for a familiar face, and spotted one by the coffee station; Lori, who’d also lost her pack to hunters. Strangely, her brother Brett had also survived, but neither of them received their pack’s alpha powers: a rare fluke. Brett rarely came to the meetings, but Lori attended them every single week; she was as close as Derek had to a friend there, though their friendship didn’t go much further than basic how-are-you’s and sitting next to each other. Still - it was nice to know at least one person in a room full of strangers. Lori caught his eye and waved; Derek nodded back and made his way to the chairs laid out in the center of the room.

“All right, everyone, if you could all take a seat, we can get started,” called a woman named Amanda, who’d been leading the group since before Derek began attending. Everyone in the room obediently shuffled to take a seat. Lori made her way over and sat down next to Derek, coffee and a couple cookies in her hands.

“I’d offer you one but I know you’re not a fan,” she whispered, and Derek snorted quietly.

“Welcome,” Amanda said when everyone had fallen silent. “To tonight’s newcomers, I'll remind you that this is a safe space - we don't fight each other, and we don't share each other’s secrets. Some of us are omegas by choice, and some are not, but we’re all here to support each other, regardless of our paths in life.” She beamed at the assembled omegas, some of whom nodded in agreement. 

“Now,” Amanda continued. “Let's get to know one another. Those new here tonight, why don't you introduce yourselves? Tell us your name and a little bit about you - we don't need your life history - and what you'd like to get out of coming here.” She pointed at a woman near the front. “Vanya, would you like to go first?”

Derek half listened to the woman stand and speak, his stomach tight; he didn't like speaking in front of large groups, no matter how many times he'd had to do this. He was aware, too that someone was watching him; a sideways glance showed him a young man sitting across the aisle, well-dressed, a casual slouch to the way he sat that seemed to say he’d come here many times before. He was watching Derek coolly, and didn't look away when Derek fully turned his head to make eye contact, instead holding Derek’s gaze for a long moment before nodding and finally looking away. Derek frowned; something about the guy’s smug expression rankled him.

“Derek?” Amanda said, breaking through his thoughts. “Would you like to go?”

Derek got to his feet, his hands suddenly sweaty. “I'm Derek,” he said stiffly, looking above all the heads turned to look at him. He could feel the young man watching him again. Derek exhaled and curled his fingers against his thighs. “I - lost my pack to a fire.” There came a sympathetic murmur, though he saw one woman lean over to whisper in another’s ear. 

“And what do you hope to get out of coming to our meetings?” Amanda promoted gently. 

“I don't know,” he said, shrugging a little. “I just - I like being here.”

“That's a perfectly acceptable answer,” she told him, smiling. Derek sat - with great relief - when she turned to address the rest of the room: “It may take several meetings to understand what you want, and we - “ Amanda made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the group. “ - can help each other figure that out. The transition to omega status isn't easy, even for those of us that became omegas by choice. It's not an easy life. Many of us have had to relearn control. And for those of us who want to return to beta status - “ Someone in the crowd growled derisively and Amanda smiled indulgently. “ - we can connect you with packs.”

Derek thought about this as the introductions continued, listening with half an ear as a middle-aged man described being thrown out of his pack after clashing too many times with his alpha brother. Derek could certainly use a crash course on control; he felt all right now, during the new moon, but in a couple weeks it'd be harder to keep himself in check. It was the small moments, like when he’d hurt Stiles - when he reacted instinctively. That worried him.

“ - been a while,” Amanda was saying when Derek tuned back in. “Why don't you reintroduce yourself?”

“Sure,” said the guy who’d been watching Derek earlier, getting smoothly to his feet. He gave the crowd of omegas a faint smile and said, “Theo Rankin, VP at Rankin Technologies. I've been an omega since my parents died when I was twelve. I don't miss having a pack.”

A couple omegas clapped. Derek narrowed his eyes, reassessing Theo. Amanda had said it’d been a while, which mean Theo wasn’t new, but Derek had never seen him there before. He understood what it was about him that got under Derek’s skin; it was the way he stood, the casual stance of someone with more money than they knew what to do with, someone who’d never lifted a finger to work in his life. Theo met his eyes again and the way his mouth twisted smugly told him he knew Derek knew - and he didn't care. Derek detested him. 

After the introductions had been made, a tall, willowy woman got to her feet and spoke for some time about how to handle local territory disputes. In the city, official territory lines were pretty much nonexistent, but there were unofficial claims on neighborhoods, streets - even individual apartment buildings. Derek hadn’t had to deal with the issue so far, but he listened to the woman talk about peacefully staking your own claim, and worked them through conflict solution methods in case the claim was contested. Derek wasn’t interested in staking a claim anywhere, but he also wasn’t interested in getting into any fights over intruding on another pack or omega’s territory.

The meeting wrapped after an hour or so. Some of the omegas headed for the table of refreshments, but Derek wasn’t interested in socializing, so he headed for the door with the rest of the group. Most of them went different ways immediately - Lori waved again as she headed off - but Derek grimaced when he heard footsteps following him, and grimaced again when he glanced over his shoulder and saw it was Theo.

“Hey,” Theo said, taking a few long steps to catch up. He looked at Derek intently, asking without preamble, “You were part of the Hale pack, right?”

Derek stiffened. “How do you know that?” he snapped.

“Not many fires taking out local packs,” Theo said with a shrug. “It was all over the news for a while. That’s the kind of thing you remember, even as a kid. And anyway - I remember your sister, Cora.”

“How?” Derek asked suspiciously.

“We went to the same elementary school,” Theo replied.

“She went to a private school,” Derek said, even more suspicious.

“I know,” Theo said, looking smug. “Blackthorn Academy.” 

He probably did, Derek thought disgustedly. His parents hadn't been rich, but they’d saved enough money to put all the kids into private school. 

“I’ve heard of you, too,” Theo said, smirking. “Murder, huh? Who’d you pay to get that charge cleared - “

Derek snarled and shoved him up against a building, twisting his claws in the front of Theo’s shirt so hard that the fibers ripped. “Is there something you want from me?” he growled.

Theo smiled, cool as a cucumber. “I like to know people,” he said, and there was something about the way he said it that make Derek’s skin crawl. “We could be friends.”

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Derek snapped, pushing himself away from Theo.

“See you around, Derek,” Theo called after him.

“No you fucking won't,” Derek muttered. Even when he got home, he found himself still agitated, moving things around in the kitchen aimlessly until he gave up on dinner and took a shower instead. The hot water helped a little; he wasn't sure why he’d reacted so viscerally, but there was something just - hateful about Theo.

The one saving grace of the night was glancing at his phone to find Stiles had texted him; he was unwilling to analyze the way his chest warmed at just the sight of Stiles’ name, but it was nice.

Stiles’ text said we still on for Saturday?

Derek stretched out on his bed, the sheets cool against his skin. Definitely, he typed back slowly, unaccustomed to texting. Do you want me to bring anything?

I think I’ve got everything I need, Stiles replied. Then: Oh shit, you’re a chef, aren’t you? I better have my A-game on.

Derek snorted softly. I’m not a chef. I just do the prep work.

Yea but still, you know your shit, Stiles texted. I won’t let you down, promise.

Derek smiled, his chest warming. I don’t think you will.

-

After his shift ended on Friday, Derek managed to hitch a ride home with Isaac, which gave him enough time to shower and change before catching the bus back across town to Stiles’ place. He straightened at his shirt nervously as he walked down the street; this was his first actual date in a long, long time, and the fact that he already knew Stiles didn’t help much - if anything, it made it worse, because he liked Stiles and wanted things to work between them. 

Derek looked up as he approached the building; there were lights on upstairs, which was a secret relief - Derek had worried Stiles might forget and go to bed, but when he rang the doorbell next to the side door in the alleyway, it was only moments before he heard Stiles come clattering down the stairs, and then the door swung open with a rush of warm air that smelled enticingly of food. The best part, though, was the way Stiles smiled when he saw him - a real, welcoming, glad-to-see him smile. Derek didn't get a lot of those - none at all, actually, and it felt...amazing to feel like someone actually wanted him around.

"Hey," Stiles said. "You coming in?"

Derek nodded and followed him up the stairs, breathing in deep lungfuls of Stiles’ scent, reveling in the way it mixed with the smell of his house and the food in the air. It smelled like a home, someplace someone loved, in a way that Derek's apartment completely and utterly lacked - indeed, that most places he’d ever lived had lacked.

He stepped up into the apartment and swung the door shut behind him, turning only to find himself being pressed back into the door by Stiles, his long arms folding around Derek's neck as he leaned in for an intense kiss. Derek gave in readily, sinking back against the door so he could take Stiles' weight, fingers digging into his hips. It seemed over all too quickly when Stiles pulled back long enough to say again, "Hey."

"Hey," Derek breathed, watching Stiles lick his lips. He let his gaze slide down Stiles' lean body, eyebrows rising when he saw Stiles was wearing a loose shirt and sweatpants. "Were you asleep?"

"Took a nap on the couch," Stiles admitted, unwinding his arms from around Derek's neck, turning for the kitchen. "Woke up an hour ago and got the food in the oven, then went back to sleep." He grinned over his shoulder at Derek. "You hungry?"

Derek was; Stiles made him sit at the small table in the kitchen, and then moved about swiftly, piling food on plates. A timer went off on the stove and he moved to pull a roast chicken from the oven. Derek couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. 

"What?" Stiles said, looking amused.

"You went all out," Derek said.

He was gratified to see Stiles' cheeks flush a splotchy red. "It's nothing fancy," he protested. "This is no five-star restaurant."

Despite Stiles' protests, Derek soon discovered that the food was amazing. It shouldn't have come as such a surprise; if Stiles was skilled at making potions, it made perfect sense that he might be a good cook too. Derek couldn't remember the last time he ate a home-cooked meal; despite a brief period after his release from prison in which he'd gorged himself on everything he'd missed while incarcerated, Derek didn't care to cook, especially not after working in a kitchen all night. Most of his meals came from the freezer section, too tired and apathetic to make any more of an effort. 

Stiles seemed pleased by his appetite, even if he didn't each much of his own food; Derek figured he'd probably had a dinner earlier in the evening, at a normal time. "You want a beer?" Stiles asked. "One of my friends is into home brewing were-beer and he gave me a case as thanks for a spell I did for him."

"Sure," Derek said agreeably, watching Stiles rise and head for the fridge. "Kind of a dick move, though, isn't it? Giving you beer you can't drink?"

Stiles shrugged fluidly. "I can drink it," he said. "It just gives me terrifying hallucinations." He grinned as he set a bottle down in front of Derek. "Sometimes that's fun."

"Not tonight, though?" Derek asked, noting that Stiles had only gotten Derek a beer, nothing for himself.

Stiles grinned again, a little reluctantly. "I'm not gonna lie," he said. "If I have anything harder than water, I will pass the fuck out."

"Oh?" Derek said regretfully. "I won't stick around much longer, if you're tired."

"That," Stiles said firmly, "is not what I was saying."

He raised his eyebrows significantly at Derek, who felt his face go warm, a heady rush of excitement tingling down his spine. "Oh," he said.

Stiles' grin widened. "You finished eating?"

"Yeah," Derek said fervently, and he let himself be led into the living room, where he sat on the couch. Stiles turned on the television, apparently for background noise, because he climbed onto top of Derek, straddling his thighs, and kissed him aggressively. They had a leisurely make out session and it was fun - Derek didn't really indulge in anything these days, but he indulged in Stiles now, hands sliding all over his body, up his thighs, down his back, under his shirt, feeling out his hot skin. He liked being underneath Stiles, pinned by his weight. Derek yanked him down closer, and Stiles bit down on his throat when their hips came in contact, making Derek hiss with pleasure. 

Things got less leisurely after that; Derek worked his hand down the back of Stiles' sweatpants and curled a finger inside him while Stiles groaned into his shoulder, hands scrambling at Derek's fly. They got competitive about it - Stiles had his brow furrowed in concentration as he jerked Derek off, looking so serious while he panted and pushed back against Derek's fingers that Derek started laughing at the absurdity of it - right up until Stiles made him come and his laughter faded off into a groan as he spilled over Stiles' fingers. Stiles grinned, flinging both arms into the air like he'd just scored a soccer goal, which gave Derek the real estate to grab his crotch. Stiles bucked up into his hand with a whimper, bracing his hands on Derek's shoulders, working his hips back and forth between Derek's hands until he too came in his pants.

"Gross," Stiles groaned, relaxing against Derek's chest. He didn't seem all that grossed out though, nuzzling dreamily against Derek's throat, and Derek certainly wasn't complaining. "Gimme twenty minutes," Stiles sighed, dragging his teeth against Derek's jaw. "Then round two."

Round two was just as good as the first - they managed to make it to Stiles' bedroom, and Derek fucked him good and slow, Stiles' knees hooked right over his hips. He was a little worried, after the last time, about losing himself, but he didn’t feel that frantic call of the wolf, just a yearning need to have Stiles touch him everywhere, which Stiles did enthusiastically. They almost got through round three, but Stiles fell asleep while Derek was eating him out, and Derek was content to slide back up to the top of the bed and curl up with him, happier than he'd been in months.

-

Sometime in the early morning, Derek was woken by Stiles leaning over him. He didn't bother opening his eyes; he could smell soap and toothpaste on Stiles. "Hey," Stiles murmured, dragging his fingers through Derek's hair. "You working today?"

"Mm," Derek assented sleepily. 

"Okay," Stiles said. "I have to go downstairs and get some work done, but you can sleep as late as you want. Take a shower if you want. Just stop in downstairs before you go; I want to get that spell set up."

"All right," Derek mumbled. He felt Stiles lean down and brush his lips against his temple; an oddly intimate gesture considering how little they knew each other, but he wasn’t going to complain. It felt nice to think someone cared about him. He heard Stiles leave the room and, a moment later, the door to the apartment opened and shut and Stiles' footsteps receded downstairs. Derek sighed peacefully into the pillow and flipped over, quickly sliding back into slumber.

It was late by the time he woke again; long months of waking in the afternoon for night shifts had trained his body to know when it was past noon and time to wake. Derek surfaced slowly, brow furrowing at the warm weight on his chest. Cracking an eye open, he found Bernard curled there; he tilted his chest so that Bernard went gently sliding off him to land on the mattress. This seemed to displease him, because he chittered irritably before tucking himself back into a circle. 

Derek stared up at the ceiling for a while, thinking idle thoughts. He couldn't hear any noise from the floor below - a part of the spells containing the magical residue from the apartment, maybe, or just good sound proofing. He wondered if it went two ways, his face going a little warm at the thought of how loud they'd been the night before - not that the store had been open for customers to hear them. It'd been a good night, though, one Derek was eager to repeat sometime soon. He grinned sleepily. As soon as possible, if he had anything to do with it.

Eventually, Derek pried himself out of Stiles' bed and wandered into the bathroom, where a hot shower helped wake him up. A still warm pot of coffee in the kitchen helped wake him up further; he sat at the small table and sipped from a mug as he watched Bernard trundle into the kitchen to take a drink from a bowl of water on the floor. He came over to sit by Derek’s feet after he was done, looking up at him plaintively.

“Can I help you?” Derek asked. 

Bernard stared at him for another few seconds before making a huffy noise and wandering out of the kitchen. Derek shrugged to himself, slowly finishing his cup of coffee and thinking about how odd it was that he couldn’t hear any noise from the store downstairs, though the kitchen window was open and he could hear traffic on the street outside just fine. He knew it had to be a privacy spell, but it unnerved him; he was used to being able to hear everything around him, so being able to almost feel the void below him was strange.

Coffee finished, Derek got to his feet and rinsed out his cup, then headed for the stairs that went down into Stiles’ office. He’d just pulled the door open when Bernard came sprinting down the hallway, long claws clattering on the hardwood floor. Derek stuck his foot out reflexively to stop Bernard from tumbling down the stairs, not sure he was allowed out of the apartment. Bernard seemed offended by this; he tugged on the leg of Derek’s jeans, but when Derek lowered his leg, figuring Stiles was downstairs anyway, Bernard looked down the steep staircase and then back up at Derek, and didn't move.

Derek sighed. Bending down, he scooped Bernard up with both hands, and carried him down the stairs. It was a strange feeling; he knew Bernard was composed entirely from magic, but he felt warm and heavy and real. It was a little unsettling. 

The door to the office at the bottom of the stairs was ajar; hands full with Bernard, Derek nudged it further open with his foot, interest piquing when he heard voices in the shop - Stiles’, low and angry, and another, male and unfamiliar. 

“ - telling you, it’s not a good time,” Stiles said as Derek stepped into the office. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” the other voice drawled. “It is if I say it is.”

Frowning a little, Derek stepped out of the office so he could see into the shop. Stiles stood behind the counter, his mouth set angrily, cheeks flushed. A man stood opposite him, no one Derek had ever seen before, tall and lanky, probably a good twenty years older than either of them. They both looked at Derek as he stepped into view, and while Stiles’ mouth went even thinner, the other man smiled humorlessly. 

“Now I see,” he said. “You’re busy.”

“Yes,” Stiles said shortly. “So fuck off.”

The man swung his head to look at Stiles. “Do not speak to me like that,” he said calmly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” Stiles snapped. The man gave Derek a brief, scornful look before making his way out of the store, taking his sweet time as Stiles bounced his foot pointedly. When the man finally made it out the door, Stiles didn’t even bother going over to lock it like he had after the witch hunters; he just made an aggressive hand gesture and the lock snapped shut, causing the man outside to give them a sarcastic look over his shoulder as he walked away. 

Stiles looked so pissed that Derek wasn’t even sure what to say to him. “I, uh, brought Bernard down,” he offered, raising Bernard like a peace offering.

Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping as his anger drained out of him. “Thanks,” he said. “Might as well head back upstairs if you want me to set up that spell, though.”

“Whatever works,” Derek said cautiously, not wanting to bother him if he was in a bad mood, but Stiles just shrugged and stepped out from behind the counter. He held out his hands and Derek passed him the woodchuck; Stiles tucked Bernard under his arm like a small, fat football and headed for the stairs. Derek followed, albeit uneasily, trailing Stiles back up to the apartment and down the hall to his apparent workshop, the room across the hall from the guest bedroom where Derek had spent the night the previous week. 

Now Derek got a good look at the workshop in daylight and found it a bright, cluttered space; a workbench took up most of the space along one wall, while two bookcases - one full of books, the other’s shelves full of glass jars and bottles of various sizes - took up another. There was also, curiously, a cat tree by one of the windows; Stiles caught Derek’s puzzled look and grinned. 

“He likes to be able to see out the window,” he said, setting Bernard down on the floor. They both watched the woodchuck walk across the room to the cat tree, where he hoisted himself up to the highest level, stretching out before, to all appearances, falling fast asleep. 

“You can sit,” Stiles directed, pointing to the stool at the workbench. Derek sat, watching Stiles open a book already sitting on the bench, flipping it open to a previously marked spot. His eyes flickered over the page and then he nodded, pulling a wooden bowl from a stack before moving off to the bookshelf full of jars. He didn’t appear to need to reference the book again, deftly selecting jars, twisting off tops, pulling out handfuls of dried plants and seeds. Some he dropped in whole; others, he crumbled in his fist before adding them to the bowl. 

“Have you done this before?” Derek asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“No,” Stiles said, bringing the bowl back to the bench so he could cut some kind of dried bean into small pieces. It smelled offensively of sulfur; Derek wrinkled his nose at it. “But spells tend to fall into structural patterns based on the goal of the spell; it’s a matter of ratios. It’s like baking - a recipe might share the same ingredients with another - eggs, butter, flour, sugar - but it’s the amount of each that tells you whether you’re getting cookies or cake out of it.” Stiles frowned, glancing over at the book. “Sometimes they need a little extra boost, and that’s where you come in.”

“Me,” Derek repeated, some of his nervousness coming back.

“You,” Stiles agreed, jerking open a drawer under the bench; it rattled like it was full of cutlery, and when he put in a hand and drew it back out, he was holding a silver knife. “This all right?”

Derek made himself nod. “How much do you need?”

“Not much,” Stiles said brightly. “Just a drizzle.”

Derek snorted wryly, but offered his hand all the same. Stiles gave him a brief, reassuring smile and took hold of Derek’s wrist, steadying his hand so that Stiles could cut a line across it, the knife so sharp Derek barely felt it. Stiles closed Derek’s fist and they watched in silence as blood dripped from Derek’s hand into the bowl. Derek could feel the power gathering in the room as faint ache in his teeth; it pushed against his powers, made him want to shift. 

“That’s enough,” Stiles said, gently pushing his hand away. Derek uncurled his fingers; the cut had already healed over. Stiles leaned over the bowl and murmured something in a language Derek didn’t know, but it made the power in the room shift, the tension popping like his ears at a high elevation. Stiles exhaled. “There we go.”

“That’s it?” Derek asked. “How long will it take?” 

“Depends on how close she is,” Stiles replied, pointing at the bowl. Derek’s eyes widened; the mixture had turned into an inky black liquid, but within its depths, golden points of light like distant stars began to appear, flaring briefly before fading out of existence. “Also depends on if she’s taken any magical measures to hide herself. Could be a few hours or a few days.”

“So now we just wait?” Derek asked.

“Now we wait,” Stiles confirmed, carefully picking up the bowl and placing it on an empty space in the bookcase. “Once it finds her, it’ll follow her, so we don’t have to worry about losing her, okay?”

Derek exhaled quietly. “Okay.” He paused, then asked, “If she’s dead - ”

“It will find her,” Stiles told him, his eyes soft. “One way or another.”

Derek sighed. “Thanks.”

Stiles looked a little concerned. “Are you feeling okay about doing this?” he asked. “I can cancel the spell if you’re having second thoughts.”

“It’s fine,” Derek said. “I’m just not sure what to expect. I’m - worried I won’t like the outcome.”

“Do you want to stop?”

Derek shook his head. “No. The not knowing is worse.”

Stiles’ face softened. “Finding her is the first step,” he said. “You can always change your mind.”

“I know,” Derek said quietly, looking down at his hands.

“Here,” Stiles said, pulling a washcloth from another drawer and dampening it with a jug of water. “Let me clean you up.”

“Oh - thanks,” Derek said, a little startled, but he let Stiles take him by the wrist again, relaxing his fingers so that Stiles could clean the blood from his skin. His palm felt a little tender, but the cut had completely vanished. Still, Stiles was careful, his movements gentle, and Derek had to admit that it felt kind of nice to be taken care of. Stiles noticed him watching; he smiled, and when he was done he let go of Derek’s hand but he didn’t move away. 

“Feel all right?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Derek said, curling his fingers against his palm. Then, because curiosity was pulling at him, and Stiles didn’t seem to be angry anymore, he asked, “Who was that downstairs? A client?”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his mouth going thin. “Not really. He works for the FBI. We help each other out sometimes.”

"He seemed like kind of an asshole," Derek said.

"Oh, he's all asshole," Stiles retorted scornfully. "But he's my best friend’s dad, and he's actually useful sometimes, so - can't get rid of him yet."

Derek narrowed his eyes; Stiles’ heart didn’t quite stay steady over those words. Judging by the way Stiles had driven him off, they had some kind of bad history - but it wasn’t any of Derek’s business. Instead, he asked, “Do you want to do this again?”

Stiles leaned up against his workbench. “Yeah,” he said. The side of his mouth quirked up. “Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek said. “I enjoyed myself.”

Stiles looked pleased. “You want to do it again?”

“Yes,” Derek said firmly. “Monday?”

“Works for me,” Stiles grinned. “I’m easy like that.”

Derek huffed out a laugh and his stomach gave a nervous flutter of - something at the way Stiles smiled at him. He swallowed hard, remembering Erica’s invitation. “Do you want to go out? I know a place.”

“Sure,” Stiles said. “You pick a time. Text me?”

“I’ll text you,” Derek promised.

Outside, the air was crisp, the day bright and sunny. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he left Stiles’ place; it was beginning to feel like a habit, and not one he had any intention of breaking.

-

It was close to midnight and Derek was almost out the door; he just had a few more bowls to bring over to the dishwasher to get cleaned and then he was free. In his pocket, his phone vibrated. It scared him a little; no one ever messaged him. He hurried to fish it out, worried it was something from Erica - but he relaxed when he saw Stiles’ name on the screen.

Bored, Stiles said. Couldn’t wait for you to text me first. You still working?

Yes, Derek typed back. Almost done. He tilted his head back, thinking. Erica had stopped by the restaurant earlier, so he’d asked if her offer still stood, and she’d been so inexplicably delighted she’d barely been able to squeak out an “Of course!” so at least he didn’t have to come up with a different plan. Does seven work for Monday?

Sure, Stiles replied. This place fancy?

Derek thought about this. It’s a little fancy.

What qualifies “a little fancy”? Stiles shot back immediately. Are we talking like Noma? Because let me tell you, when I was a kid, “fancy” was Outback Steakhouse.

I mean a nice shirt, Derek replied, a smile curving his lips. Maybe a tie, just in case.

Now THAT is fancy, Stiles texted. But I'm looking forward to it.

So am I, Derek responded. He hesitated, then added, looking forward to seeing you more though.

You charmer, Stiles replied. Then, a couple seconds later: I like that. :)

Derek’s whole body went hot, pleased with himself. Smooth, he thought, and laughed out loud, then glanced around guiltily. Boyd turned around from a conversation with Isaac, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Derek felt his face go even warmer; he grabbed the dirty bowls from his station and headed for the sink.

-

Stiles was waiting when Derek showed up on Monday evening, lounging on the front step of the shop, his long legs sprawled in front of him. He looked good - dark pants and a crisp cream dress shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “Hi,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Hi,” Derek echoed. “You look - amazing.”

Stiles’ cheeks went a little pink. “So do you,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek. “You always do, though.”

It was Derek’s turn for his face to go warm. “Are you hungry?” he asked, voice a little strangled.

“I can always eat,” Stiles said cheerfully. “We walking?”

“If you want,” Derek said. “It’s not too far.”

“It’s a nice night,” Stiles decided. “Let’s do it.”

They fell into step beside each other, the only people out on the quiet street. Derek felt a little awkward, always struggling with small talk. “Did you have a good weekend?” he tried.

Stiles shrugged. “It was all right,” he said. “I went out to visit my best friend yesterday. He bought this huge old farm outside the city, and he’s gone all Old MacDonald out there.” Stiles shuddered faintly. “Dirt everywhere.”

“You get that outside,” Derek said dryly.

Stiles gave him a delighted grin. “What about you?”

Derek paused before answering. He wasn't sure he was ready to tell Stiles about the support group, which was the only thing of note he’d done lately. It felt...deeply personal, and because of Laura’s case, he’d already had to share a lot more about himself than he did with...anyone else, really. “It's been okay.” He thought for another moment and added, “Better now,” which seemed to please Stiles; he bumped his shoulder against Derek’s, the corners of his mouth curving up.

A couple blocks from the restaurant, Derek thought to ask, “Has the spell worked yet?”

“No,” Stiles replied, his brow furrowing. “I checked it this morning, and it’s still processing, but it’s going super slow. That makes me think she’s used magic to hide herself - or she's really far outside the city.” He squeezed Derek’s arm reassuringly. “I've never had one take longer than a week. It'll find her.”

“Oh,” Derek said thoughtfully. He wasn’t as optimistic as Stiles was; after so many disappointments in life, he was almost entirely prepared never to hear from Laura again. The fact that the spell was taking so long didn’t make him feel any better. 

Stiles whistled lowly as they approached the facade of the restaurant. “I think we might need those backup ties,” he said, looking at the couple going in before them - the guy wore a suit jacket, the woman in a not over the top, but explicitly nice dress. “Hey,” Stiles said in a low voice, tugging on Derek’s arm. “You know - you don’t have to impress me or anything, okay? This looks, um, expensive.”

Derek felt a little worried himself; he was trying to remember if Erica had flat-out said the meal was free, and he couldn’t remember if she had. He didn’t make a ton of money, but she knew that, so it must have been implied, right? Even with his discount, he’d still be eating cereal for a week. He supposed that, worst came to worst, they could have drinks here and eat somewhere else. “I work here,” he admitted, and Stiles relaxed a little, sudden understanding on his face. Derek hesitated before following up on this; he knew Erica had promised not to be there, but he was doubtful she’d keep her promise, in which case, he needed be honest. 

“The owner’s wife - she’s my parole officer,” he told Stiles. “She might be in there tonight and I - I’m not supposed to have anything to do with magic. It’s one of the terms of my parole.” He looked at Stiles anxiously.

Stiles blinked. “Oh,” he said. “You could have said that earlier.” Derek’s heart sank, but then Stiles grinned, sliding his hand into Derek’s. “Good thing I’m not supposed to have anything to do with it either, legally speaking. If she looks me up, all she’s going to see is that I own an antique shop.”

Derek exhaled, relieved. “What do you call yourself, then?” he asked, guiding Stiles into the restaurant foyer. 

“Consultant,” Stiles said cheerily. “Expert, sometimes. Whatever the job requires, really.”

“And if she asks how we met?”

“You found my journal on the bus, remember?” Stiles grinned. “That’s the truth.” He sighed dreamily, squeezing at Derek’s hand. “My hero.”

“Shut up,” Derek said, his cheeks heating up.

The hostess - Derek couldn’t quite remember her name, but he was pretty sure she was some kind of shifter - smiled when she saw them. “Hi Derek!” she said cheerily. “This your date?”

Derek nodded sheepishly, feeling a little self-conscious; he hadn’t really thought about the fact that this place was full of people who knew him - and who nothing about him. Even as she led to them to a booth, he saw a couple of the waitstaff swing their heads around to stare. 

“I’ve never been within five miles of a place this fancy,” Stiles whispered after they’d sat down, the hostess retreating to the front of the restaurant. “We should have taken an etiquette class before coming here. How many forks do you think we’ll get?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Will you relax? It’s not that bad.”

“Says you, Mr. Cool,” Stiles muttered. “I told you: fancy in my family was, like, Applebee’s.”

Derek nudged him in the leg with his knee. “Cool it,” he said, and Stiles grinned at him. “Tell me about your family. You said your mom was hedgewitch?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “She died when I was ten. My dad used to be sheriff, but he didn’t like how political it got, so he went back to being a deputy after a couple of terms.”

Derek wrinkled his nose, unable to hide the his distaste for the police. 

“Hm,” Stiles said, propping his chin on his hand. He looked almost amused. “Not a fan of law enforcement?”

“I - “ Derek looked around warily, expecting to see Erica, but the coast was, so far, clear. “No.”

“Guess I can’t blame you,” Stiles said. “Does that change how you think of me?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said. Then: “I don’t think so.”

At this point, they were interrupted by the appearance of Boyd, dressed, as always, in impeccably clean chef’s whites, a distinctly amused look on his face. Derek felt his face warm; it was kind of like having his dad show up.

“Hey man,” Boyd said, reaching out to shake Derek’s hand. “You sure this is where you want to be on your night off?”

“Erica insisted,” Derek said. “This is Stiles. Stiles, Boyd - this is his restaurant.”

Stiles’ eyes widened as Boyd turned to him for a handshake. “Oh, hey. Great place! I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, but I’m sure it’s amazing.”

Boyd snorted. “So the reviews say. Try whatever you want; it’s on the house tonight, all right?”

“That’s really not necessary,” Derek said, though it was a token argument more than anything.

“Erica insists,” Boyd said, in an all-suffering tone.

“She here?” Derek asked. Boyd rolled his eyes and jerked his head toward the bar; Derek could just made out Erica’s head of blonde curls. He sighed. 

“She cares about you,” Boyd told him. “I’d make the most of it; she doesn’t like a lot of people.”

“That’s adorable,” Stiles said. Derek glared at him. 

Boyd chuckled. “You two enjoy your date. I'll remind Erica to keep her distance.”

“It is cute,” Stiles said as Boyd headed for the bar. “It's nice she looks out for you.”

“Yeah,” Derek said absently. “She doesn't have to. I don't get it.”

“You don't think you deserve it?”

“I don't know,” Derek said, feeling a little lost - and a lot vulnerable.

Stiles offered him a faint smile and reached across the table, curling his fingers around Derek’s. “Tell me about your parents,” he said. 

Derek looked at their hands. He wasn't sure what Stiles saw in him either, but he knew he wanted to make it last. “Okay,” he said slowly. “My mom worked from home. Our pack was old and respected - other alphas would come to her for advice on pack issues or territory disputes. My dad…”

It felt like they talked for hours, and if Derek had been asked what they talked about, he wouldn't have been able to answer, because it seemed like they talked about everything - and though he hadn't spoken that much in years, he enjoyed himself. Stiles was witty and sharp as a tack, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Derek tried not to stare at him all night; he wanted to consume Stiles, body and soul.

The food was amazing - Derek had tasted pretty much everything off the menu before, but it was completely different when he got to sit and enjoy it. They debated over what kind of dessert to get - Stiles advocated all of them - and as they did, the door to the restaurant opened and Theo Rankin stepped inside. Derek, who'd been keeping a habitual half eye on the door the entire meal, stilled.

“So that's a no on the creme brûlée?” Stiles asked, then turned his head, following Derek’s gaze. “Who's that? You know him?”

Derek, who didn't feel like attracting Theo’s attention, turned his head with a grimace. “Later,” he said, growing claws on one hand and slashing pointedly in the air.

“Ah,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes at Theo, who turned as a young woman stepped up beside him, linking her arm through his. “Later.”

They settled on a trio of fruit sorbets, each topped with a profiterole glazed in caramel, which were thoroughly enjoyable. 

“Applebee's will never be the same after this,” Stiles said sadly, popping the last spoonful of sorbet into his mouth.

“I don't think that's any great loss,” Derek said, and Stiles snorted. 

As they finally left, winding their way between the tables, Derek caught sight of Theo sitting at the bar with his date. 

“He looks slimy,” Stiles muttered, having seen him as well.

“He is,” Derek said quietly. “Can't put my finger on it.”

Stiles hummed softly and made the tiniest of movements with his fingers; the glass Theo’s date was holding tipped forward, spilling deep red wine all down the front of his crisp white shirt.

“Stiles,” Derek hissed, mortified, as Theo jumped from his seat, swearing up a storm. Derek caught sight of Erica and Boyd further along the bar; Boyd looked concerned, but Erica appeared to be holding back laughter.

“What?” Stiles asked innocently, as Derek hauled him out of the restaurant. He burst out laughing as soon as they were on the street. Derek dragged his hands over his face with a groan. Stiles elbowed him. “C’mon, that was a hilarious. Did you see his face?”

Derek couldn’t help but snort; it had been satisfying to see. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“What, because of my magic?” Stiles grinned, wiggling his fingers; faint sparks leapt from his fingertips and he actually seemed a little surprised, quickly shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll behave myself.” And as they crossed the street, Stiles asked, “What’s the deal with that guy, anyway? He’s a werewolf?”

“Omega,” Derek said. “I met him - ” he hesitated for a moment. “ - the other night. He said he was the VP at some kind of technology company.”

Stiles scowled. “At his age? Successful people disgust me.”

Derek glanced over at him. “You don’t consider yourself successful?”

“Well…” Stiles shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “I guess I should be proud of myself, with the business and everything, but I’m not. There are a lot of thing I wish...hadn’t happened.”

“I think we can all say that,” Derek said, after a moment of thought. Stiles gave him a bracing smile, but they were quiet the rest of the walk. When they reached Stiles’ place, Derek paused, unsure if this was where their date ended. Seeing him hesitate, Stiles hesitated as well. 

“Are you coming in?” he asked.

“If you want me to,” Derek replied. He wanted to, very much so - and when the corners of Stiles’ mouth lifted, so did Derek’s spirits. 

“I wouldn’t say no to more good company,” Stiles said, his grin widening. “Yeah, I want. You in?”

“My evening’s wide open,” Derek told him.

“That,” Stiles said, his eyes sparkling, “is the best news I’ve heard all day.”

-

“Mm,” Stiles sighed, worming closer to Derek. “I love being my own boss.”

Derek snorted softly. It was sometime mid-morning; the light that bled through the blinds was bright but still angled low in the sky. He wasn’t usually awake so early, but he’d fallen asleep fairly easily the night before - boosted, perhaps, by the heavy meal and an enthusiastic round of adult activities with Stiles. “Why’s that?” he asked softly, turning his head to press his nose to Stiles’ hair, breathing in his scent, the electric buzz of it making his skin crawl in a good way. “Because you set your own hours?”

“Mmhmm,” Stiles agreed, stretching luxuriously before flipping onto his stomach and flopping one long arm over Derek’s chest. “You like working nights?”

Derek thought about this. “Sometimes,” he said. There were no crowds on the street, and the bus was always quiet at night. His job was loud, but he could handle that. “It makes having a life hard, though.”

“Yeah, I could see that,” Stiles said, propping himself up on his elbow so he could see Derek’s face, his other hand tracing slow circles across Derek’s chest. His eyes dropped to Derek’s tattoos, one finger tracing the line of a raven’s wing. “Can I ask if any of them mean anything?”

“No,” Derek said, and Stiles’ eyes flickered to his face uncertainly. “No, they don’t mean anything,” Derek clarified. “Just this.” He showed Stiles the inside of his wrist and the long list of initials there. “My family.” He hesitated, then added, “And the one on my back.”

“The triskele?” Stiles asked, drawing a spiral on Derek’s chest. “That can mean a lot of things.”

Derek nodded. “Alpha, beta, omega,” he said.

“The rise and fall of power,” Stiles said thoughtfully. His gaze slid back down, taking in Derek’s tattoos. “Do people look at you differently with all these?”

Derek nodded again. People looked, stared, frowned. They got too invasive, some of them, asking what they meant or if he’d push up his sleeve so they could see more.

“Does it bother you?”

Derek shrugged. “Could be worse.”

Stiles tilted his head to one side. “How?”

Derek licked his lips, old anxiety pushing at his ribs. “They could be staring because I’m a werewolf.”

“You don’t want people to know?” Stiles asked, his brow furrowing.

Derek shook his head. “The only people who know are my - ” He cut himself off, unwilling to mention his therapist or the support group. “Erica,” he said. “Boyd. Isaac. You.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. “That’s why you were pissed when I asked what you were. Jeeze - I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said quietly. “You weren’t afraid.” Even when Derek had lost control and hurt him, he hadn’t been afraid, just surprised. 

“Well,” Stiles said softly, touching Derek’s cheek. “Thanks for trusting me with your secret.”

Derek let his eyes close under Stiles’ touch, breathing quietly. He didn’t completely trust Stiles - not through any fault of his own; they just hadn’t known each other that long - but he felt safe with him, in this bed, in this apartment. Connected.

“Okay,” Stiles said after a while. “I’m going to go brush my teeth and then make us breakfast, all right?” He shifted forward and pressed a quick kiss to Derek’s lips, then the bed shifted as he got up. “Be right back.”

Derek opened his eyes as Stiles left, first turning his head to look at the window before rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t know what it was about Stiles that made Derek want to spill his secrets to him, but it was equal parts thrilling and exhausting. 

Derek pried himself upright eventually, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed so he could get dressed. His clothes were scattered across the room - they hadn’t been removed with much care the night before - and his jeans were all the way over by Stiles’ dresser. Derek tread over to them with a sigh, picking them up before pausing as he noticed a glossy magazine sitting on the chest of drawers.

A group of people stood on the cover, and Derek’s eyes went first to the man at the very front, stocky, his arms crossed over his chest, a faint, confident smile on his face. To his right stood...Stiles, frowning a little, hands in his pockets. He vaguely recognized three others - the redhead and the brown-haired woman who’d been downstairs the first time he’d come in and, most perplexingly, Kira, his favorite librarian - while the rest were a mystery to him. A sick feeling beginning to grow in his stomach, Derek dropped his pants and picked up the magazine so he could read the cover title: Meet the California pack turning tradition on its head.

Pack. Derek stared at the word until his eyes blurred and he had to blink. Pack.

He looked up as Stiles came back into the room, humming to himself. He stopped short when he saw Derek holding the magazine, and then his face went bright red. “Oh my god, don’t read that!” he exclaimed, trying to grab it out of Derek’s hands. “It’s not for me - my dad wanted a copy - ”

Derek jerked backward, refusing to let go. “You’re in a pack,” he growled. 

“Well, I mean - ” Stiles panted, still trying to grab the magazine. “I guess, but it’s - ”

“You’re in a pack,” Derek repeated, hurt pushing out the growl. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Stiles paused, his brow furrowing as he registered the upset in Derek’s voice. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, sounding perplexed. 

“Yes it does,” Derek snapped, his stomach turning. “I’ve slept with you - multiple times. I’ve broken so many rules - ”

“What?” Stiles said incredulously. “There aren’t any rules about sleeping with me!”

“I can’t just sleep with a member of another pack!” Derek said angrily. “If your alpha thought I was trying to poach you, I - ”

“Whoa, whoa,” Stiles said, waving his hands around. “Poach me? What is this, the sixth century? I’m not property; I can do what I want!”

“You’re a human,” Derek said. “You wouldn’t understand - “

“Don’t pull that shit on me,” Stiles said sharply. “This outdated alpha-is-the-supreme-ruler bullshit is exactly the kind of stuff Scott doesn’t give a fuck about, all right?” He jerked his head toward the magazine in Derek’s hands. “That’s what the whole article is about.”

Derek looked down at the cover, at Stiles’ frown in the photograph, then up at the twin expression on his face. “You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly.

Stiles’ face softened. “Look,” he said. “I’ll concede that there’s a lot about werewolf culture that I don’t know, but I promise that even if you have violated some kind of werewolf ethical code, Scott doesn’t care. I swear.”

Derek looked down at the magazine again. He felt out of touch and ashamed, acting like he was some expert on werewolf customs when that part of him had been stripped away when he was ten, and everything since he’d had to learn on his own, or from other omegas just as screwed up as he was. Who was he to pretend like he had any understanding of pack dynamics when he hadn’t had a pack since he was ten? Stiles had a pack and he was human. 

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, stepping up next to him. He reached out, gently taking the magazine from Derek’s hands and tossing it uncaringly back on the dresser. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was in a pack.”

Derek shook his head. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t matter. I panicked. I’m sorry.”

Stiles watched him for a second, chewing at his lip. “Is that really something werewolves can’t do?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said, ashamed to admit it. “Maybe not any more. My mother - she was old school. Everything was about power and controlling territory.”

“Huh,” Stiles said thoughtfully. 

“Your alpha’s not like that?” Derek asked.

“Nah,” Stiles said, scratching at his chin. “I mean, he’d give you a real good dead arm if you ever tried to steal his lunch in high school, but…” He grinned hopefully at Derek, who stared at him blankly. Stiles’ smile faded and he added more seriously, “No, dude. Scott’s not about power. He likes helping people.”

“Oh,” Derek said quietly. 

“You can meet him, if you want,” Stiles said, looking a little worried. “I mean - he’s my best friend, too. You’ll probably meet him sometime.”

“Okay,” Derek said. He considered Stiles thoughtfully. “Are you their emissary?”

Stiles grinned. “Well, if anyone asks, I only give advice, no magic, but yeah.” He reached out, threading his fingers through Derek’s. “So...are we okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek replied. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”

Stiles squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You hungry? I feel like pancakes.”

Derek smiled faintly. “I like pancakes.”

“Good,” Stiles said, tugging him out of the room. “I’ve got a new recipe I’ve been dying to try.”

-

Derek went to the omega support group that week because the full moon less than a week away, and even though most of the omegas were visibly on-edge, it was nice to commiserate with others who knew the struggle to control their wolves. There was always a rundown of tips to help with control, but Derek had heard them all before, and none of them worked for him. He had nothing to focus on; nothing poignant to attach himself to, to anchor himself. When he was a kid, it had been pack, but control had been easier then anyway - it wasn’t until after he hit puberty that the shift became harder to control, his foster parents locking him in the basement. He should have found something by now, but there was nothing in him - his time in prison, most of it spent in reflection, had washed most of the anger from him - and there was nothing in his life important enough to cling to. Experience had tempered the full moon somewhat, but he still ended up hurting himself or breaking something most of the time. His secret dream of spending the full moon with Stiles would never happen; he’d die before he hurt Stiles again.

The group that night was small, as it tended to be before full moons - the first meeting after a full moon was usually the busiest, after omegas spent the night suffering the consequences of the loss of pack - but for Derek, who’d spent most of the meeting reminiscing about that morning, spent between Stiles’ thighs, it took him almost halfway through the meeting before he realized that Lori hadn’t sat next to him. That was unusual; they’d been friendly for at least three months, and she always sat next to him if he was there. He twisted to glance around the room, thinking that maybe she’d come in late and sat in the back, but he didn’t see her pale, perennially-worried face amongst the sparse crowd. Derek frowned to himself as he turned back to the front. That was strange; Lori herself told him that she hadn’t missed a meeting since she started attending two years ago. Still...maybe something had come up. Or maybe she’d started to feel confident enough not to come; her brother hardly ever came, after all. 

The meeting concluded without Lori ever showing up, and Derek almost thought about asking the group leader if she’d heard from her - but it wasn’t any of his business. Instead, he filed out with the rest of the omegas at the end of the evening, nodding to a few familiar faces as they split for the night. Theo hadn’t been at the meeting either, so at least Derek didn’t have to worry about getting accosted on his way home again. 

He’d almost reached his apartment when his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He sighed a little; it was still a few days off from the full moon, but he felt a lot more tired than he normally did, achy all over with the underlying, needling urge to shift. All he wanted to do was get home and take a hot shower, then sink into bed - but there was a very short list of people who’d be calling him, especially at that time of night, and as tired as he was, he was happy to see Stiles’ name on his screen. “Hey,” he said quietly, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Stiles echoed. “Are you at work?”

“I had the day off,” Derek said, fishing in his pocket for his keys, his building in sight down the block. “I’ve been out. You okay?”

Stiles exhaled slowly, then said, “The spell’s got a hit.”

It took Derek’s brain a few steps to catch up. “Laura?” he said when it did, his eyes widening. “You found her?”

“I’ve got a cross-street,” Stiles said. “The spell’s still struggling with her exact location - I think we’ll have to go down there to get a more detailed read. You want to - ?”

“Tonight?” Derek asked sharply. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Stiles said. “Now that the spell’s got a hit, it’ll follow her if she moves, so - ”

“No,” Derek said. “I can’t keep waiting on this. If you’re willing - ”

“Yeah,” Stiles said immediately. “Yeah, of course. I’ve got it down to Third Ave and Park Street - you want to meet me there?”

“I’ll see you there,” Derek said firmly, and strode off toward his apartment building - then paused and spun on his heel. Third Avenue wasn’t too far from him, an area where the apartment buildings petered out and turned industrial; he could be there in half an hour - maybe fifteen if he ran, and he did, because it was Laura. His mind raced; what would they find? Why had the spell taken so long to find her? Was she okay? Was she alive?

Derek got to the intersection first; he slowed as he reached it, barely out of breath, looking around warily. The buildings around him were all low, brick buildings that looked like factories, some of which seemed to be abandoned. Few cars sat on the street, and even fewer drove through. It was eerily quiet compared to his neighborhood, which made him move cautiously, sticking to the shadows. It didn’t make any sense to him; why would Laura be in an area like this? 

Stiles appeared five minutes later, walking slowly down the sidewalk while Bernard toddled along behind him. Derek frowned at him, not sure why Stiles was moving so slowly until he spotted the wooden bowl in his hands; he’d brought the spell with him. The faint golden light from the bowl lit Stiles’ face from below, hollowing his eye sockets, giving him a somewhat otherworldly look. “Hey,” Stiles said, not looking up from the bowl. “You ready?”

Derek drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”

Now Stiles did look up at him, his brow creasing. “You sure?”

“I have to know,” Derek told him, and Stiles’ face softened.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “Okay, so - “ He looked down at the bowl, studying the lights. Derek leaned in to look as well, but though they made no sense to him, Stiles seemed to understand perfectly; he swung his body sharply around and set off down Third Avenue. Derek followed, looking around cautiously, and Bernard came last, toenails clicking against the pavement.

“Here we go,” Stiles said after nearly a block; the light in the bowl was intensifying. Derek tilted his head back to look at the building in front of them, four stories of brick and broken windows. He listened hard, but he couldn't hear anything moving inside. He didn't like the looks of the place; too many nooks and crannies for things to lurk in - too many places where their backs would be exposed. 

“Do we have to go in?” he asked reluctantly. “You can't narrow it down?”

“Not from here,” Stiles said briskly, heading for a gap in the chain link fence surrounding the abandoned building. 

Derek grabbed him by the back of his shirt before he could slip through. “It could be dangerous!” he said sharply.

“I know,” Stiles said, looking perplexed. “This isn't my first rodeo, man.”

“So you think it’s a good idea to just charge in there?” Derek asked, exasperated. “What if something comes at you? Your hands are full!”

“I don't need my hands,” Stiles replied, a little petulantly. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don't know,” Derek said irritably. “Just - let me go first.”

“Heroic,” Stiles said sarcastically, but he didn't fight Derek over it, letting Derek push through the fence first, and nodding gallantly when Derek held it open for him. 

They silently crossed the overgrown courtyard, heading for a doorway at the front of the building. The handles of the doors were chained shut with a padlock, but one of the doors itself was off its hinges; it was easy work for Derek to lift it aside. The gloom inside the old factory was heavy and oppressing, the air stale and smelling of mold and pigeon shit. Derek wrinkled his nose; he couldn't tell if Laura was there - the rank stench of decay smothered everything else.

“Anything?” he murmured to Stiles.

“Got it,” Stiles whispered. “Second floor. It's locked on now.”

Derek uneasily scanned the first floor as they headed for the wide stone steps that would take them up to the second floor, but there wasn't anything to see, just a long, open space dotted with rusted shells of broken machinery. 

Partway up the stairs, Stiles abandoned the spell, leaving the bowl on one of the steps, where it cast bright golden light against the wall. “Don't need it now,” he muttered. “Shit, it’s dark in here”

“Shh,” Derek said, reaching back to take his hand.

“What was that about having my hands free?” Stiles murmured, but he didn’t pull away, his fingers tightening around Derek’s. Derek was secretly grateful for his touch; he was growing increasingly anxious as they stepped onto the second floor, scared of what they’d find. 

This floor wasn’t open like the first; it was broken into a honeycomb of office spaces, dark, empty doorways looming around them. They selected a hallway at random and began searching the floor, Derek’s chest growing tighter with every room they found empty, the place barren except for overturned desks and filing cabinets. He tried to listen for any sign of movement or a heartbeat, but the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears, deafened him. He knew - he knew that any moment now, they were going to look into an office and find Laura dead; what else could they find in a place like this? 

They searched the entire floor. Derek’s footsteps slowed as they turned down the hallway, nostrils flaring as he caught a faint hint of - something he couldn’t trace, gone almost as soon as he picked up on it. He swung his head from side to side, trying to find it again as Stiles headed for the last office.

“I dunno,” Stiles said, sounding dejected and forgetting to keep his voice down. “Maybe I was wrong - ”

“Stiles!” Derek snapped, his ears catching the sound of another heartbeat two seconds too late. He just barely managed to jerk Stiles backward as a woman burst out of the office, her long legs flying. 

“What the hell?” Stiles squawked, arms whirling as he tried to keep his balance.

“Laura!” Derek yelled, throwing himself after the woman. He heard her snarl as she disappeared down the back stairs, long dark hair streaming behind her. Derek thundered behind her while somewhere behind him, Stiles yelled, “Derek, wait, what the hell?”

Derek ignored him, eyes focused on Laura. She hit the landing to the first floor and took off down the long, open space, heading for the front door, where moonlight spilled through the propped open door. “Laura!” he called again, desperate. “I’ve been looking for you, please - “

“Leave me alone!” she snarled, mouth full of teeth. 

He was closing the gap, only ten feet between them when she reached the front door. Laura burst outside - and then shrieked as someone seized her around the waist, lifting her off her feet. Derek didn’t even pause; he threw himself at her attacker, shifting with a joyful shudder, giving in to the moon’s pull. Laura was yelling, swinging her claws at the man holding onto her, and they all hit the ground when Derek slammed into them.

He knew how to fight - he knew how to fight dirty. There was no pride to fighting in prison, no honor; it was all about winning, because if you didn’t win, you became the person everyone else beat on. Derek had been that person the first couple of months, and then he’d learned - fast. He wasn’t great, but he could win.

Laura’s attacker was a wendigo; he hissed at both of them, eyes burning liquid silver, mouth full of needle-like teeth. Derek grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face against the ground while Laura scrambled away, panting. The wendigo fought back, clawing at Derek with razor-sharp claws, ripping open his forearms. Derek howled at the pain but didn’t back down; he smashed his fist once, twice, into the wendigo’s side and heard something snap. The wendigo keened, scrambling away from him, and Derek moved after him but - 

“Derek!”

Derek turned to see Stiles coming out of the factory, Bernard in his arms. He looked horrified. “Derek, stop!” he panted.

Derek grimaced as the wendigo sprinted across the courtyard, sliding through the gap in the fence before disappearing down the street. His arms hurt, but there were more important things, like Laura. Derek turned hopefully to look at her - and froze. Laura...wasn't Laura.

Derek stared. Standing in front of him was an angry-looking young woman around Stiles’ age. Derek wasn’t sure how he ever could have thought she was Laura; apart from the angry expression, she looked nothing like Laura, her hair a lighter shade of brown, her face more delicate. She didn’t smell like Laura, either; her scent was the one Derek had caught upstairs, unfamiliar and strange - not a wolf, but definitely some kind of shifter. His heart sank; he must have been so certain she was Laura that he’d made himself believe it.

Now, the woman stamped her foot angrily and snapped, “You want to explain yourself? Why the hell do people keep coming after me?”

Derek opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Stiles said, sounding perplexed, “Malia?”

The woman’s head snapped around so she could stare at Stiles, her brow furrowing deeper. “Stiles?” she asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Derek’s sister,” Stiles said, stepping over to Derek’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked Derek anxiously. He went pale when he saw the wounds on Derek’s arm. “Jesus - you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Derek said impatiently. “What’s going on here? Where’s Laura?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, glancing over at the woman - Malia. “Was there anyone else inside?”

“Just me,” Malia said, glowering at them. “Until you two idiots showed up.”

Derek bared his teeth at her irritably, jerking his arm out of Stiles’ grasp when Stiles tried to look at the claw marks. “They’re healing,” he said sharply. “I said I’m fine. Where’s Laura? You said the spell said she was here!”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said wretchedly. “The spell seeks out the nearest blood relative, so, if there was no one else in the building…” The color drained from his face. “Um.”

Derek figured it out in the same moment; they both swung their heads to look at Malia, who glared at them. “Oh jeeze,” Stiles said faintly.

“How do you know her?” Derek asked grimly.

“We dated in high school,” Stiles said sheepishly.

Derek closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, ignoring the way it made blood pool in the elbow of his jacket. “This isn’t happening,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. “I didn’t - I thought Laura was the only family you had left.”

“Yeah,” Derek said wearily. “So did I.”

He looked at Malia, who folded her arms across her chest. “I’m adopted,” she told them helpfully. 

Derek exhaled slowly. “What does blood relative mean?”

Stiles scratched a hand through his hair. “Uh...sister,” he said. “And cousin, I guess. Aunt, maybe, but I doubt it.” He glanced at Malia, and then looked at Derek. “Look, Derek - “

“Stop,” Derek said quietly, closing his eyes again. He sighed. “I’m going home.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “What? But you - ”

“I need some space,” Derek told him. Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek said, “Please.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. He didn’t look happy - he looked miserable, in fact. “I’m sorry.”

Derek nodded.

“Your arms,” Stiles said hesitantly. “Can I - “

“I’ll be fine,” Derek said, his voice coming out flatter than he meant it to. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said unenthusiastically. “Sure.”

As Derek turned and strode off across the yard, Malia called, “Nice to meet you too!”

“God, don’t even start,” Stiles groaned.

Derek ignored the both of them; he had no room in his head to even begin processing the new enigma that was Malia - first he had to deal with the realization that he’d failed to find Laura yet again. But first, he thought wearily, walking fast down the sidewalk to his car. First, sleep. He didn’t even shower when he got home, just peeled off his bloodstained and torn up jacket, kicked off his shoes, and crawled into bed. His arms hurt faintly still, but the cuts had healed over. He’d deal with that when he woke up. For now - sleep.

-

Derek woke to the sound of someone hammering on his front door. He surged out of bed groggily, nearly tripping over his pants - which he must have taken off some time in the night - and walked heavily down the hallway to the door. Whoever it was was still knocking furiously, and when he ripped open the door, he found it was Erica. 

“Hi!” she said, her voice hard and full of fake cheer. “I don’t ask that much of you, do I?”

“...no,” Derek said cautiously, confused. “Why - ”

“All I ask,” Erica said, louder, “is that you go to work, you go to therapy, and you don’t cause trouble. Right?”

“Right,” Derek agreed. “What - ”

“So imagine my disappointment when I get a call from my husband - your boss, I’ll remind you - telling me you didn’t show up there!” Erica snapped.

“I...didn’t miss anything,” Derek said, bewildered. “I mean - I didn’t mean to. What time is it?”

“Almost six,” Erica said, and Derek swore, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “Honestly.”

Erica’s brow furrowed and her hand snapped out, grabbing him by the wrist. “Where’s this blood from?”

Derek pulled his arm out of her grasp, trying not to look as guilty as he felt. “I got - attacked last night.”

Erica looked alarmed. “What? You need to go to the police, Derek!” 

“No,” Derek said sharply. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Erica watched him for a long moment, her lips pursed. “I don’t like this,” she said, “but since this is the first time you’ve flaked on me, I’ll let it go. Just this once, you got me?”

“I got you,” Derek said quietly. He felt bad; Erica had done a lot of nice things for him, and he didn’t like lying to her. 

Erica looked at him for another long second before she said, “So how did your date go? It looked like the two of you were having a nice time.”

“You said you weren’t going to be there,” Derek replied, reeling a little with the abrupt subject change.

“Couldn’t help myself,” Erica said, her lips curling in a smile. “He’s cute. You like him?”

“Do we need to have this conversation?” Derek asked, his face going warm - and it grew even warmer when it struck him that he wasn't wearing any pants. “I need to get to work.”

“Don't bother,” Erica said. “I made an excuse for you.”

Derek paused. “You did?” Erica nodded, and he frowned at her. “Why do you do these things for me? I don't deserve it.”

“Sure you do,” Erica said. “I've handled bad people, Derek, and you're not one of the bad ones. I'm not going to screw you over because you messed up once. Just don't do it again.”

“I won't,” Derek promised quietly. “Thank you.”

Erica smiled. “Whatever. Enjoy your night off. Go fuck your boyfriend.”

“Erica,” Derek said, mortified. Erica winked at him and strolled off down the hall, hands in her pockets.

Derek closed the door and leaned against it. It was only then, as silence settled around him, that memories of the previous night came filtering in and his jaw tightened with them. No Laura, a possible new cousin, attacked by a wendigo - Derek lifted his arms, examining them closely, but the wounds had long healed over, and now all there was was flaking, itching dried blood. He sighed. He needed to shower. 

On the way to the bathroom, Derek stopped in his bedroom to check his phone. He sighed again; sure enough, there were missed calls from his therapist and work but - he was a little disappointed to see - nothing from Stiles. There was no reason why he would have reached out; Derek had said he wanted space, and they didn’t talk everyday as it was, but he wasn’t mad at Stiles. He didn’t blame him for the spell finding the wrong person, and he didn’t want Stiles to think he did. He should text him, but he wasn’t sure what to say. 

Derek sighed for a third time, tossing his phone onto his bed. He’d figure it out later.

-

Derek texted Stiles eventually, though it took his shower, dinner, a trip to the gym, and another shower before he figured out what to say. He kept it simple; all he wrote was Thanks for your help last night. I’m sorry I left.

Stiles didn’t reply that night, but Derek didn’t really expect him to; he knew Stiles went to bed early, and it had already been past eleven when he sent it. When he rose the next day to get ready for work, Stiles had replied: How’s your arm

All healed, Derek wrote back.

Glad to hear it, Stiles responded, and Derek went off to work feeling a little lighter. 

-

On Saturday, Derek woke earlier than he usually did - his sleep schedule was all out of whack now - and decided to make use of the morning by going to the library. He thought, for a moment, about going to Stiles’ place, but he decided against it; he still felt strange about everything that had happened, and with Stiles wrapped up in it all - Derek just needed a break. 

The library turned out to be busier than Derek had ever seen it, which made sense, considering he usually only went in the middle of the week. Still, he was able to find a quiet corner in the seldom-visited biography section, an old armchair sitting in a dusty patch of sunlight, and settled there with his latest volume of French philosophy - [name and title later].

As he sat there, however, the warm sunlight relaxing him, his mind began to wander, eyes not taking in the words on the pages before him. His thoughts, as they had so often in the past few days, drifted to Laura, and the stinging disappointment that had come from not finding her on Thursday. 

Where was she? Derek closed his eyes, exhaling quietly. He’d been so sure they were going to find her body in that old factory, and then he thought they'd found her - only for her to turn out to be someone else. He still didn't know whether to be relieved - that they hadn't found her body, that she might still be out there somewhere. He’d never asked, but maybe someone in the support group might have heard of her; there was someone else out there missing her, not just Derek - there had to be.

As for Malia - Derek couldn't even wrap his head around her. A sister or a cousin, Stiles had said, but who in his family would have given up a kid? Pack was everything to them; no one would have given up a kid any more than they would have given up an arm. Where had she come from?

Derek sat slumped in the chair for another half hour, his mind whirling, but he soon admitted defeat. He wasn't getting any reading done, and he wasn't solving any of his problems by sitting around, so he got to his feet and headed for the philosophy section. He needed something a little less meaty this week; Derek detoured to the fiction section instead, and pulled a random Douglas Adams novel off the shelves. 

The librarian he usually saw on Wednesdays, Kira, was manning the circulation desk again - he'd seen her when he came in, and she'd waved cheerfully - but as he headed to the desk, he saw she wasn't alone. Stiles was leaning against the desk, talking cheerfully to Kira and a stocky young man. Derek, thrown, hurriedly stepped back amongst the shelves, stooping a little to watch them. 

He couldn’t see much of the other guy’s face - he and Stiles both had their backs to Derek - but when the guy turned to look at Stiles, Derek recognized him from the cover of the magazine. Was this Scott, Stiles’ best friend - the leader of his pack? He and Stiles seemed to know each other well - which would make sense if they were best friends - their body language casual; Stiles made a joke and the guy elbowed him in the ribs with a snort while Kira laughed. Derek’s eyes dropped to the shelf in front of him; he didn’t want to be caught spying on them, nor did he feel particularly ready to meet Scott. He could wait. He didn’t even try to listen in - he respected Stiles enough that he knew it wasn’t fair - so he listened to the children’s story hour on the floor below, absently touching the titles in front of him, pulling one off the shelf every so often for the look of things. 

Derek let himself get distracted enough - the story was The Princess and The Pea; an old classic, but the librarian reading was a good storyteller - that he didn’t notice Stiles standing next to him until Stiles cleared his throat quietly and Derek actually jumped a little, feeling unaccountably guilty. 

“Hi,” Stiles said quietly, offering him a faint smile. “Kira told me you were around here somewhere.”

“Hi,” Derek said, startled. “You know Kira?” Too late, he remembered that Kira, too, had been on the magazine cover - another member of the pack?

“Another friend from high school. She and Scott are married,” Stiles told him. 

“How does she know who I am?” Derek asked suspiciously.

“I told them about you,” Stiles replied, his cheeks going a little pink. “She thought she knew you. Not a lot of handsome, tattooed men named Derek in the city, I guess.”

“Oh,” Derek said, his own face going a little warm at the compliment. 

Stiles watched him for a moment and then suddenly said, “I’m sorry about the other night.”

Derek straightened, surprised. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted. “I feel like I did,” he admitted. 

“You didn’t,” Derek repeated. “I’m disappointed we didn’t find Laura, but I’m not mad at you. You couldn’t have known - I didn’t know.”

“I can use a different spell,” Stiles said earnestly. “I looked it up. It’ll be a bit more complicated, but - ”

“Maybe later,” Derek said, and Stiles closed his mouth. “Take a break.”

Stiles bit at his bottom lip a moment before he asked, “Are we taking a break?”

“No,” Derek said, startled. “I didn’t mean - no. Do you want to?”

“No!” Stiles said vehemently. He relaxed a little and repeated, “No.”

“Good,” Derek said, relieved. “Do you want to - tonight - ?”

“I’m going to Scott’s,” Stiles said. “We’re having a kind of reunion party for Malia. You could come if you want,” he added hopefully. 

“I can’t leave the city,” Derek said, a little glad for the excuse; he wasn’t sure he was ready to meet Scott McCall, let alone the entire pack, anyway. 

“Oh,” Stiles said, looking a little disappointed. “Well - Monday, then? And...I get it if you’re not ready, but it’d be nice if you could talk to Malia. She was just as surprised as you were.”

“I guess so,” Derek said reluctantly. “Is she staying with you?”

“You could say that,” Stiles sighed. “She insists on sleeping outside. She says it’s safer.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why.”

“More escape routes,” Derek said, without even thinking about it. He leaned up against the bookshelf, taking a careful look around before adding, “That wendigo had something to do with it. He was looking for her.” He’d been waiting outside the door, Derek was fairly sure. There’d been no hesitation in his movements when he seized her around the waist.

Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “Why would someone be looking for her?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said quietly. “Why would she be hiding in an abandoned building?”

Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets, chewing on his lip again. “I think I need to start looking into this,” he said. “You’ll come over Monday, though?”

“If you’ll have me,” Derek told him, smiling faintly. 

“In more ways than one,” Stiles replied, one side of his mouth lifting up. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, leaning in to press a slow kiss to Derek’s lips - which Derek returned gladly, hands drifting toward Stiles’ hips until he remembered where they were. He pulled away, his face hot, eyes flitting around guiltily. Stiles snorted. “Oh come on,” he said. “Like you've never made out with anyone in a library before.”

“Not ten feet from the front desk,” Derek retorted. “And not since high school.”

“Lucky,” Stiles said, laughing a little. “I was too much of a social outcast in high school to be able to find anyone willing to make out with me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Derek replied, looking Stiles up and down speculatively, pleased when Stiles flushed.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot about me you might find hard to believe,” Stiles said, voice flippant, but for just a split second, his expression flickered, his smile failing. It was back in the blink of an eye, but Derek would think about it later and worry. “Anyway,” Stiles said airily, “come over whenever on Monday, all right?”

“All right,” Derek said agreeably. “I'll see you then.”

“See you,” Stiles echoed, his mouth quirking up in that impish way Derek found so hard to resist. 

-

Derek looked around warily as he walked down the alleyway to Stiles’ side door on Monday; he remembered Stiles saying that Malia had been sleeping outside, and he half-expected her to appear, but he made it to the door without catching a glimpse of her. He rang the doorbell and presently, Stiles opened the door from the other side, smiling when he saw it was Derek. “Hey,” he said warmly. “I was hoping that was you.”

“Expecting someone else?” Derek asked. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You never know with this place, to be honest. I’m glad it’s you. Come on in.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth curved up as he stepped inside, pleased to be wanted. “You’re working?” he asked, following Stiles not up the stairs to the apartment, but through a door that led to the back of the antiques shop. He watched Stiles walk into the downstairs office; his gaze lingering on Stiles’ ass - he was wearing sweatpants again, low-slung around his sharp hip bones. He must have showered; his hair was still damp, and he smelled like soap and bare skin. A lazy sort of heat stirred in the pit of Derek’s stomach.

“Just catching up on some stuff,” Stiles said, flopping down on the couch. The coffee table was covered in papers, and Stiles waved a lazy hand at them as he patted at the side of his head until he located the pen tucked behind his ear. “Invoicing. The boring part.”

“Oh,” Derek said, sinking down next to him. He leaned in close, peering over Stiles’ shoulder. “Spellwork or the shop?”

“Spellwork,” Stiles said. “Though I need to pay my sales tax soon; thanks for reminding me.”

“Do I owe you anything for the spell you did for me?” Derek asked.

“That was a thank you for returning my journal,” Stiles reminded him. “Anyway, you got hurt. I can’t charge you for that.”

“Then let me pay for the next one,” Derek said. “Your research - ”

“No,” Stiles said.

“Stiles - “

“No,” Stiles said again. “You’re my - ” He cut himself off abruptly, his cheeks going pink. Derek stared at him. “I - want to,” Stiles said. “I want to help you.”

“That’s literally your job,” Derek said, half exasperated, half - he didn’t know what. That flush was still on Stiles’ cheeks; he wanted to taste it.

“You’re not my job, though,” Stiles said. “You’re - important.”

They were both quiet for a moment, still. Derek could hear Stiles’ heart beating faster than normal, his scent shifting to something that was like anxiety, but not quite.

“I didn’t come to you expecting this,” Derek said quietly. 

“Neither did I,” Stiles replied. His gaze dropped to Derek’s mouth, his eyelids lowering. “So - you don’t owe me anything, all right?”

“All right,” Derek said softly.

“But if you feel like you need to show me some gratitude, I’m not too good for a little appreciation - or other things,” Stiles told him, smirking faintly.

“Subtle,” Derek told him, but it was an invitation and he took it all the same, leaning in to kiss Stiles slowly, enjoying the taste of him after a couple days apart. He liked the quiet noise of appreciation Stiles made against his mouth, biting at Derek’s lip. Stiles began to turn so he could face Derek fully, but Derek slid an arm around his waist, keeping him in place.

“Oh?” Stiles asked, lips parting in a grin as he settled back against Derek’s chest, hand curling protectively over Derek’s wrist. Derek rubbed his nose against the fine hairs at the back of Stiles’ neck, taking a deep, gut-twisting inhale of the scent of him before opening his mouth against Stiles’ skin, laving a thick line with his tongue, chasing it with his teeth. “Oh,” Stiles sighed, his hand tightening around Derek’s wrist. “Yes - ”

Derek pressed a kiss to his shoulder, using his free hand to tug at the collar of Stiles’ shirt to bare more of that delicious skin. He sucked a bruise into bloom on Stiles’ shoulder blade while Stiles squirmed against him, short, cut-off noises escaping from his lips. He kissed a line up Stiles’ neck, let his teeth graze his skin and the delicate curve of his ear while his hand wandered back down Stiles’ body, slipping under the waistband of Stiles’ sweatpants. A delicious thrill ran through him when he only touched bare skin - Stiles wasn’t wearing any underwear. Stiles swore when Derek’s fingers brushed his dick; his hips tried to jolt upward, but Derek’s arm around his waist tightened, keeping him still. 

“Fuck,” Stiles said, laughing breathlessly. “C’mon - I’ve been horny as fuck since we made out at the library.”

“Have you?” Derek hummed, pressing his mouth to the back of Stiles’ neck, tasting the sweat that was beginning to flavor his skin. He curled his fingers around Stiles’ dick, hiding a smile against Stiles’ shoulder at the way Stiles swore again, his blunt fingernails digging into Derek’s arm. 

“Shit,” he panted as Derek began to jerk him off, his hand moving slowly. “Fuck - I get off - thinking about you - everyday.”

Derek growled low in his throat, pleased, and Stiles shuddered, his hips still trying to move, push Derek to move faster - but Derek liked this pace, liked Stiles under his power. Stiles’ dick was hot and hard in his hand, the tip wet with precome. Stiles whined when Derek swept his thumb over the tip, arching his back, reaching back with one hand and grabbing at the first piece of Derek he touched - his hair. Derek growled again, enjoying the rough handling and the way Stiles’ scent was starting to go desperate and sweet. Derek was hard too, his dick trapped torturously between his stomach and Stiles’ back, not getting nearly enough friction. Stiles would return the favor, he thought, mouthing dreamily at Stiles’ neck. Maybe he’d let Derek fuck him. Maybe - 

Stiles’ hand suddenly tightened around his wrist, so hard it almost hurt. “Shit,” he said urgently, and for a moment Derek thought he was about to come, but then he said, “Shit, Derek, stop,” and Derek lifted his head to see Malia standing in the doorway to Stiles’ office, watching them with her eyebrows raised. “Do you mind?” Stiles hissed at her. 

She raised her eyebrows higher. “You told me to come downstairs when I was ready,” she retorted, folding her arms across her chest. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you could have figured out this wasn’t a great time?” Stiles snapped. Derek, his face heating to what felt like a thousand degrees, belatedly realized his hand was still down Stiles’ pants and hurriedly withdrew it. Stiles didn’t seem embarrassed - he seemed more irritated than anything - but Derek couldn’t look at Malia, rigid with embarrassment. If they really were related, it was even worse - almost as bad as getting caught by his mom.

“Do you want me to come back?” Malia asked pointedly.

“I think you’ve spoiled the mood now,” Stiles said sourly. He turned his head slightly. “Derek?”

“Whatever,” Derek muttered, pressing his forehead to the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Sit down, then,” Stiles said ungratefully to Malia. 

She shrugged, stepping into the shop and dropping down into the ugly orange armchair across from them. Derek, still mortified, suddenly needed to escape. He shot to his feet, almost knocking Stiles over, and managed to croak out, “Bathroom,” before striding off across the shop, slipping through Stiles’ office and up the stairs to his apartment, making a beeline for the bathroom. He closed the door behind him with a sigh, leaning back against it for a long, fortifying moment before turning to the sink to wash his hands; he didn’t think he could bear to sit there with his hands reeking of Stiles.

After, as he splashed cold water on his still-warm face, there was a quick knock on the door and then the knob turned and Stiles slipped inside, looking worried. “Sorry,” he said immediately, before Derek could even say anything. “I’m sorry about that. I forgot I even told her to come downstairs.”

Derek straightened, drying his hands on his pants. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said. 

“Yeah I do,” Stiles said. “You looked horrified. I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that.”

“You weren’t embarrassed,” Derek said.

Stiles shrugged. “I’ve had worse shit happen.” He gave Derek a weak smile. “I promise it wasn’t some kind of set-up. I’m not an exhibitionist.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” Stiles said, scowling faintly. “I’ve got plenty of other kinks - but I don’t like to share my toys.”

“Is that what I am to you?” Derek asked. “A toy?”

The color drained from Stiles’ face almost as quickly as he tried to backtrack: “That’s not - I didn’t mean it like I - ”

Derek huffed out a quiet laugh. “I know you didn’t,” he said. “I was just teasing you.”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, open-mouthed, and then he threw a playful punch at Derek’s arm. “You asshole!” Derek caught his fist easily and Stiles grinned at him. “I promise I’ll make up for the interruption later,” he said, dark eyes sparkling. “Unless - you want to finish it up now?”

Derek shook his head; he’d lost his hard-on the moment he’d spotted Malia in the doorway. “Save it for later,” he said. “When we can take our time.”

Stiles grinned again. “I like the sound of that,” he said, putting his hand on the doorknob. “Are you ready?”

Derek nodded; he felt a little more centered now, prepared for what was undoubtedly going to be a strange, awkward conversation. Stiles led the way downstairs and Derek followed him, sinking back down onto the sofa opposite Malia, who watched them both impatiently, tapping her fingers against her slender legs. Her hair was wet too - she must have showered after Stiles. 

Derek looked at her intently now that he could see her in the light of day, searching for something recognizable in her face - for some sign of family. Derek and all of his siblings had looked like varying degrees of clones of their father, all dark-haired and heavy-browed and pale-eyed - only Cora had had their mom’s brown eyes. Malia’s hair was a rich brown but nowhere near as dark as Derek’s and her eyes, though brown, were much darker than either Cora’s or his mom’s had been. She seemed to have a perpetual frown on her face, which was certainly Hale-like, but other than that, Derek was at a loss.

Next to him, Stiles shifted around, putting his feet up on the coffee table. “Well, this is weird,” he said, scratching at his chin.

“Only if you make it weird,” Malia retorted. She looked boldly at Derek. “So we’re related.”

“I guess,” Derek said reluctantly. He should be grateful, he supposed, but he’d barely begun adjusting to the idea that he didn’t have any family left; now his head was spinning. 

“Do you know anything about your birth parents?” Stiles asked Malia, giving Derek a sideways glance. “Was it a closed adoption?”

Malia shook her head. “I was abandoned at a fire station when I was a baby,” she said bitterly. “No one knows who left me there.”

“What do you think?” Stiles asked Derek. “Could she be a sister?”

“How old are you?” Derek asked Malia.

“Twenty-six,” Malia told him. “Why?”

Derek shook his head. “Cora would have been twenty-six this year, so you can’t be my mom’s. And I can’t see her abandoning a member of the pack - she must not have known about you.”

Malia looked disappointed, sinking back against the couch, and Derek - he felt bad for her. It’d been bad enough losing his family; he couldn’t imagine how it felt knowing that you’d been deliberately abandoned by them, willingly or not. He couldn’t picture anyone in his family abandoning a baby; his mom would have taken anyone in and had, on several occasions, taken in wards from other packs. 

“What about your dad?” Stiles asked gently. “Any chance he - ”

“No,” Derek said stiffly. He’d been an asshole, but he’d been completely devoted to Derek’s mother. He couldn’t see his dad cheating on his mom any more than he could see his mom giving up a member of the pack. 

“Okay,” Stiles said carefully. “What about...any aunts, uncles?”

Derek thought about this. His dad’s pack had been from the east coast and while Derek had met most of them, their family had always gone to see them - none of them had ever come to California, as far as he knew. Even his grandparents had refused to come out to visit. And then there was… “Peter,” he said.

“Who’s that?” Stiles asked curiously.

“My mom’s younger brother,” Derek said. He closed his eyes, trying to think. He’d only been four when Cora was born but he could remember his mom pregnant, remembered pressing his ear to her round stomach and listening to Cora’s rabbit-fast heartbeat. Where had Peter been? Derek opened his eyes, sitting up a little straighter. “He moved back in with us when I was in elementary school.”

“Back?” Stiles echoed. “Back from where?”

Derek drew in a slow breath. “Beacon Hills.”

The energy in the room changed, suddenly electrifying; Stiles and Malia looked at each other. “What?” Derek asked sharply.

Stiles licked his lips. “That’s where we’re from,” he said slowly. “We grew up in Beacon Hills.”

Derek stared at him, eyes wide with shock. 

Beacon Hills was...a place of legend, its story infamous not just in their small county, but all of California - hell, probably half the west coast knew. Most of what had happened had occurred while Derek was in prison, but they felt the ripples even there, and it hadn’t been long before everyone knew the story: the town’s well of power had basically gone nuclear, and the resulting imbalance had dredged up so much evil shit - Derek had heard rumors of beasts ranging from demons to a fucking wyvern, though since his main source of information at the time had been his fellow inmates, he wasn’t sure how much of this could be trusted - that the land itself began to die. Now, ten years later, the town was abandoned, left to rot while God only knew what kind of things lived in its woods.

“You’re from Beacon Hills,” Derek said.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his mouth thinning. Suddenly, every odd thing Stiles had said to him - about knowing nightmares, about tragedy keeping people together - made sense. Stiles had probably seen things Derek had only dreamed of. 

Derek looked at him carefully, and what he saw there didn’t make him want to press any further. “I guess it’s possible it was Peter,” he said. He thought for a moment about Peter; Derek had thought the world of him when he was younger, but when he reflected on Peter now, Derek didn’t think that Peter had liked any of them very much. He’d seemed to resent Derek’s mother in particular, and Derek had never understood why. Maybe Malia had something to do with it - though he doubted that as well. Peter had never liked children. If his mother hadn’t known, Peter probably hadn’t known either.

“Do you think he’d talk to me?” Malia asked, looking hopeful.

Derek hesitated, glancing at Stiles, who gave him an encouraging look - but he hadn’t told Stiles yet, about the fire - about anything, really. He looked back at Malia. “No,” he told her, voice as gentle as he could manage. “I lost most of my family when I was ten.”

Malia looked at Stiles angrily. “You said he was looking for his sister!”

“I am,” Derek told her. “She and I survived. Sorry.” Malia continued to glare at Stiles, who shifted uncomfortably. Attempting to break the tension - and curious now, despite himself - Derek asked Malia, “Where are your adoptive parents?”

“My mom’s dead,” Malia said, shrugging icily. “She and my sister died in a car crash when I was a kid. My dad has anger issues. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“What were you doing in that building?” 

“Trying to survive,” Malia spat. “There are people looking for me. I didn’t do anything!” she added, beginning to look upset. “But they’re all the same - they all try to kill me!”

“People are trying to kill you?” Stiles repeated, sounding bewildered. “Why?”

“Hell if I know!” Malia snapped. “None of them ever stopped to explain it to me!”

“So what’d you do?” Stiles asked. 

“Fought them. Ran,” Malia said sharply, slumping back in the chair, folding her arms across her chest. “I killed the last one that came after me.”

Derek blinked, startled by her flat admission, but Stiles hardly seemed phased; he just frowned deeper and said, “And none of them said anything?”

Malia shook her head. “Nothing.” She hesitated, and then drew a well-worn piece of folded up paper from her pocket. “This is all I know,” she said. “I found this on the one I killed.”

She tossed the paper across the table to Stiles, who leaned forward and unfolded it. Derek, peering over his shoulder, saw an unfamiliar symbol taking up most of the page, followed by a short string of numbers at the bottom, a longer string of numbers and letters scrawled in pencil below it. “What does it mean?” Derek asked.

Malia shrugged, but Stiles had gone very still. “I’ve seen this before, I swear,” he breathed. “Wait - “ He leapt to his feet and dashed into his office, where Derek could hear him rustling through paper. He reappeared a moment later, a thick file folder clutched in his hand. “This is a job I was hired for a couple months before you and I met,” Stiles told Derek, thunking himself back down on the couch. “A woman hired me to find her son - ”

“I thought you said finding people wasn’t really your thing,” Derek said, frowning. 

“It’s not,” Stiles replied, rifling through the folder. “It was a favor - she’s a friend of my dad’s - but the police found him before I did. Someone killed him.” He pulled out a thick sheaf of glossy crime scene photographs. “I think here - oh.” Derek grimaced as he looked over Stiles’ shoulder; the kid lay splayed across a nondescript wooden floor, early twenties and shirtless, the symbol carved deep into his chest. 

“That’s not encouraging,” Stiles said, looking between the photograph and the piece of paper Malia had given him. “But...this is proof, I think. I mean - what are the chances that some random kid would end up with this symbol on him and Malia finds the same symbol on the body of someone who tried to attack her? It has to mean something.” He shoved the photo back into the file, chewing thoughtfully at his lip.

Derek picked up the piece of paper. “What’s this number?”

Stiles leaned over to count the numbers. “Too long to be a phone number,” he said thoughtfully. “Or a zip code. Bank account? I don’t know. Lydia’s a numbers whiz; we can have her look at it tomorrow.”

Derek looked at the paper again, his skin crawling at he looked at the symbol, thinking of it slashed into the chest of the missing kid. He’d heard a lot of horrific tales while he was in prison, and he’d seen some nasty things, but seeing this was different. This was unnecessary cruelty - and a message. To distract himself, he asked Stiles something he’d been wondering: “Why’d it take your spell so long to find her when she was still in the city?”

“Good point,” Stiles said thoughtfully, looking over at Malia. “Were you concealing yourself somehow?”

Malia smirked and tugged a leather band off her wrist, which she tossed to Stiles. “Oh!” he said excitedly, peering closely at it. “This is elemental magic! See?” he added, showing Derek the runes stamped into the leather. “That’s the charm, and right here - ” He tapped his finger against a small loop sticking out from the leather. “ - that’s where the element would have been. The idea is that if someone’s trying to trace the person who’s wearing the bracelet, the concealment spell will deflect the tracer spell off the element, and then the spell will continue to bounce off any instance of the same element in the vicinity. Eventually it’ll bounce back to the target and be deflected again, but every hit weakens the spell until, eventually, the element shatters and the spell is broken. They can be cheap or wicked expensive, based on the durability of the element - I’ve seen ones made from diamond that are still working after half a century. What’d you use?” he asked Malia.

“Bone,” Malia said, shrugging. “Dog, specifically. It was the cheapest the lady had.”

“Bone’s brittle,” Stiles said, examining the bracelet again before tossing it back to her. “Lots of dogs in the city, though.”

“It lasted long enough to give me a break,” Malia said grimly, slipping the bracelet back on. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Stiles jiggled his leg absently, a thoughtful look on his face. Derek stared at the sheet of paper on the table, at the heavy black symbol sitting on it. He straightened, and both Stiles and Malia looked at him curiously. “A couple weeks ago,” he said slowly, “I got a call from a - a friend. She’s - “ He paused, not sure what to call Braeden. “She’s experienced in the supernatural. She told me that people are disappearing - they’re being hunted.”

“Hunted?” Stiles repeated. “That’s...not possible. Right?”

Derek looked at Malia, whose mouth went thin. Stiles looked at her too. “Right,” he said slowly, scratching a hand through his hair. “So - I mean, why?”

“There are still a lot of people out there who don’t like our kind,” Malia said quietly. Neither of them had anything to say to that; Stiles folded his arms over his chest, looking a little defeated. They all knew she was right. 

“You said multiple people have come after you,” Stiles said after a while. “Where are they getting their information from?”

Malia shrugged. 

“Maybe these have something to do with it,” Derek said, leaning forward to tap the string of numbers at the bottom of the paper she’d taken off her would-be assassin. 

“You may be right,” Stiles agreed. “Okay. What do you say if we reconvene tomorrow and see if Lydia has any thoughts on the numbers? Sound good?”

Malia rolled her eyes, pushing herself up off the couch. “I hate math,” she said, heading for the door.

“You hate everything,” Stiles called after her, and to Derek’s surprise, Malia laughed, the noise echoing around the shop as she headed out the side door. When the door closed behind her and it was just the two of them alone, Stiles slumped against Derek with a sigh. “Well,” he said after a moment. “That was...something.” 

“Yeah,” Derek said thoughtfully.

Stiles turned to look at him, a slightly worried expression on his face. “That was a lot we just covered,” he said. “If you want some space - ”

“No,” Derek said. “I think I’ve had enough space this week.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, his shoulders relaxing. His mouth lifted at the corners. “Want to go get lunch? I could do with some sunshine.”

“I’d like that,” Derek said with some relief. He could use some food - and fresh air.

“Awesome,” Stiles said, leaping to his feet. “Let me just - “ He grabbed all the papers off the coffee table in one unorganized bundle and hurried them into his office. “Let me put on some real clothes,” he added upon reappearing. “You want to come up?”

“I’m fine down here,” Derek told him.

“Okay,” Stiles said with a brief smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Derek nodded, and watched him head into the the office and up the stairs to his apartment. It took Derek a moment to realize that he couldn’t hear any noise from the upstairs; the privacy spell probably went both directions, which made sense. 

Stiles came bounding back down the stairs a few minutes later, looking inordinately comfortable in jeans and a sweatshirt, Bernard bundled in his arms. Derek watched him and was suddenly struck by how much he liked Stiles. It wasn’t just that he was attractive, or that he was amazing in bed, but he was smart as a whip, full of life and most of all, he cared about Derek, and no one had cared about Derek for a long time. It bewildered him a little; he wasn’t sure what Stiles was getting out of their relationship.

“Hey, get your head out of the clouds,” Stiles said. “I’m starving.”

Derek shook his head a little, breaking free of his thoughts, and got to his feet, following Stiles out of the building. He looked around as Stiles locked the door behind them; he wasn’t sure where Malia had gone, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. “Won’t Malia need to get back in?” he asked Stiles.

Stiles shrugged. “She’ll be fine,” he said. “Like I told you - she’s been sleeping outside anyway.”

“Oh, right,” Derek said, as they started off down the alleyway.

“Thanks for talking with her, by the way,” Stiles said. “I know she can be kind of abrasive, but I think she’s just as weirded out by the whole - “ He waved his hand around expressively. “ - family thing as you are.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Derek said slowly. “I thought - if anything - I’d find out Laura was dead. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone alive.”

Stiles winced a little. “I’m really sorry about fucking up the spell.”

Derek sighed. “I told you you don’t need to apologize,” he said, “and you already apologized once anyway. Besides - you didn’t fuck it up. Neither of us knew I had a cousin.”

They walked in silence for half a block. Derek wasn't sure where they were going, so he let Stiles lead, figuring it was his neighborhood; he’d know a good place for lunch. After a while, he asked, “So you and Malia dated in high school?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “It didn't work out, obviously. With everything that was going on in - well, I don't think either of us was in the right place for dating.” He gave Derek a sudden worried look. “Is it okay that she’s staying at the house? If it weirds you out or anything, I can - “

“It's fine,” Derek said, cutting him off. “I trust you.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Is it weird for you?”

Stiles looked a little confused. “Is what weird?”

“That she’s my cousin and now you're dating me?”

Stiles laughed. “That is weird,” he said cheerfully, reaching over and tangling his fingers with Derek’s. “But you know what? I just can't seem to give a damn.”

Stiles eventually led them to a small cafe, which was mostly deserted at that time of the day - it was nearly three o’clock, Derek was startled to see when he looked at his phone. They found a table away from the door - though Stiles, whether he was aware of it or not, left the seat facing the door for Derek, which he appreciated - and settled in as a waitress stopped by to drop off menus and glasses of water. 

Stiles grinned at Derek, settling Bernard on his lap like a cat, his beady black eyes just barely peeking over the edge of the table. “I know it’s not as fancy as the last place we went - I hope you’ll be satisfied.”

“Shut up,” Derek said good-naturedly, smiling when Stiles kicked him under the table. “You’re asking for trouble.”

“What, payback for earlier?” Stiles asked wickedly. “Told you I’d make up for it, didn’t I?”

“I’m holding you to your promise,” Derek said loftily. “I’ve got a long memory.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles retorted, propping his chin on his hand. “Are you a grudge holder?”

Derek shrugged. He didn’t think so; he got angry quick, but he didn’t really hold onto it. He either dealt with his problems or they went away. He didn’t even hold any resentment toward Deucalion’s gang, although he would probably be within his rights to - but he knew he’d played his part in that whole mess, blame or no blame. 

“I am,” Stiles said, when Derek didn’t reply. There was something steely in his tone, even when he added lightheartedly, “I still remember when Alex Sitwell borrowed my pencil in fourth grade. He never gave it back, the little bastard.”

Derek snorted quietly. “What are you going to do if you ever see him again? Beat him up?”

“Maybe,” Stiles said, smacking his fist into his palm. “Take his lunch money. That’ll teach him to steal pencils.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Derek told him.

Stiles looked delighted. “Thanks for noticing!”

Derek rolled his eyes as their waitress returned. “You guys ready to order?” she asked.

Derek ordered a hamburger while Stiles narrowed his eyes at the menu. “French onion soup,” he decided. “And a side salad for this dude,” he added, patting Bernard on his head.

Their waitress nodded dutifully - and then her eyes slid to Bernard and went wide. For a moment, Derek thought she was about to get angry, but then instead she exclaimed, “Is that Bernard?”

Stiles looked a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he said. “Are you a follower?”

“He had less than ten thousand followers when I followed,” the waitress told Stiles proudly. “I can’t believe this!” She glanced around and then, lowering her voice, asked, “Would it be okay if I took a pic?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles said, picking Bernard up under his stubby front limbs and turning him to face the waitress. 

Derek watched in confusion as the waitress whipped out her phone, breathing, “He’s so cute,” as she took a series of photographs. “Thanks,” she finally said, straightening. “I’ll get your orders put in. Oh, I can’t believe this!” she added cheerfully, bouncing off toward the kitchen. 

Derek looked at Stiles, who looked embarrassed, his cheeks a little red. “What just happened?”

“It’s Bernard,” Stiles said, stroking a finger over Bernard’s glossy brown head. “He’s kind of an internet celebrity.”

Derek furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”

“He’s famous,” Stiles said, “on Instagram.” Derek looked at him blankly. “You don’t know what Instagram is?”

“It’s a website?” Derek hazarded. 

“It’s a social media platform,” Stiles said, pulling out his phone. “It’s for posting pictures, see?” He held up his phone so Derek could see the screen, scrolling through photo after photo. 

“What’s Bernard got to do with it?” Derek asked, more confused than before.

“I made him an account,” Stiles said, one side of his mouth lifting in a grin. “At first it was just for my friends, but I started picking up followers, and now he’s got just under a million.”

Derek tried to parse this. “A million people like your familiar?”

“Basically, yeah,” Stiles grinned. “I mean, tons of other people do it with their familiars. It’s mostly the cute animals that are popular - the cats and the red pandas and the sloths, or whatever - although there’s this lady in Tibet with this sick bearded vulture.” He looked down at Bernard and added thoughtfully, “I think people like him because he looks like a little weirdo.” Bernard made his offense at this statement known by sinking his teeth into Stiles’ finger; Stiles yelped and jerked his hand free, cursing colorfully. 

“That’s what you get,” Derek said sagely. 

Stiles shook his hand ruefully. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Instagram.”

“I have a flip phone,” Derek said defensively. Stiles looked so horrified that Derek couldn’t help but add, “I don’t even have a computer.” 

Stiles clapped his hands to his cheeks. “You - you - you troglodyte. You make me sick.”

Derek snorted. “I don’t need it.”

Stiles groaned. “Oh, no, you don’t even know what you have. What you could have. What I’d kill for.”

Derek gave him a curious look. “What you’d kill for?”

Stiles dropped his hands to the table with a sigh. “My magic’s super corrosive to electronics,” he said sadly. “My phone is spelled and I still have to get a new one every six months or so. The tv lasts about a year. I want a computer so bad, but the spelled ones are way too expensive to be replacing all the time.” He sighed again, shaking his head. “And you avoid all of it. Unbelievable.”

Derek smiled as their waitress returned, dropping off their lunch. “At least you have Bernard,” he said. 

“True,” Stiles said, picking up his spoon. “At least I have Bernard.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Derek mulling things over as they did. Eventually, he asked something that he’d been curious about for a while: “Are you supposed to have a familiar if you’re not certified?”

Stiles shook his head, wiping his mouth with his napkin before replying, “Nah, it’s fine. I mean - it was a bigger deal when I was a kid. When my mom got caught and I got sent away to the state school, I’d be punished if they caught him with me, but there’s nothing they can really do about it. They may just be a part of your magic, but - ” Stiles looked down at Bernard, who was pulling a piece of spinach out of the salad Stiles had ordered for him. “He’s one of my best friends. No one would make you give up your familiar after having it for basically your entire life.”

“That makes sense,” Derek said thoughtfully. “So - why aren’t you certified? I thought - ” He cut himself off, already regretting asking; Stiles’ shoulders had gone stiff, his mouth thinning.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Stiles said flatly, not meeting Derek’s eyes. 

“Okay,” Derek agreed quickly. He watched Stiles stonily stab at the bread on top of his soup, then offered, “I’m sorry.”

Stiles nodded curtly. “It’s fine.”

Derek hesitated a long moment before saying, “If you ever want to talk about it - “

“I said it’s fine,” Stiles snapped, and his glass of water cracked in half. Derek looked at the water spreading over the table but he didn’t say anything, a little hurt. Twin spots of color appeared high on Stiles’ cheeks. “Sorry,” he muttered, mopping at the water with his napkin. “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you about it sometime, just - not here. It’s - it hurts.”

“Okay,” Derek said quietly; he could understand that. He reached over the table, putting his hand on top of Stiles’. Stiles gave him a brief, weak smile before picking up his spoon and returning his attention to his soup. Derek didn’t eat the rest of his hamburger, his appetite gone. He thought about Stiles instead, and everything he’d learned that day. He knew there was something deeply unhappy inside of Stiles - it wasn’t just in the things he said sometimes, but the way his smile would falter, or the way his gaze went distant. And now that Derek knew he’d grown up in Beacon Hills, well - it didn’t take much to put two and two together. Whatever had happened to Stiles while he was young, whatever he’d seen - it’d done something to him.

Derek could sympathize with that; he was something of an expert in misery himself.

-

To Derek’s surprise, Stiles didn’t seem all that interested in being alone after lunch. Derek had half expected him to come up with some kind of excuse to leave - and Derek wouldn’t have blamed him at all - but instead, Stiles slipped his hand back into Derek’s as they stepped outside the cafe and asked, “You want to go see a movie or something?”

So they did; they walked to the movie theater and saw a long action movie that was more special-effects sequences than plot, and Stiles pushed the arm of the seat up so that he could tuck himself against Derek’s side, which Derek didn’t mind in the slightest. Afterward, they went back to Stiles’ house and ordered pizza for dinner, and by then it was late - and Derek realized it was the first time they’d spent the whole day together, and despite the ups and downs, he’d enjoyed himself. When Stiles asked if he wanted to spend the night, Derek was more than happy to say yes, only asking “Mind if I take a shower?” in return.

When Derek emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and stripped down to his underwear and t-shirt, he quietly padded down the hallway to Stiles’ bedroom, where he paused in the doorway to raise his eyebrows; Stiles had laid out candles on the dresser and nightstand, the room dimly lit with their soft light. “Candles?” he asked, a little amused.

Stiles, already in bed, pushed himself up onto his elbows and gave him a look. “Shut up,” he said. “It was a long day. I’m allowed to be romantic.”

Derek snorted. “I don’t mind,” he said, pulling off his shirt as he stepped into the room. He thought for a moment as he slid under the sheets. “No one’s really ever romanced me before.”

Stiles turned on his side to watch Derek. “Do you want to be?” he asked. “Romanced, I mean?”

Derek thought about this too. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I just want someone who cares about me.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment, though his hand came out to touch Derek’s arm, his long fingers warm against Derek’s skin. “Do you want to make this official?” he asked abruptly. “I mean - I haven’t been seeing anyone else, but if you want to keep this casual, that’s okay.”

“I haven’t been seeing anyone else,” Derek said, startled. “I don’t want to see anyone else.”

Stiles gave him a slow smile. “So can I call you my boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, a faint smile of his own spreading across his face. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Stiles said vehemently, and shifted forward to press his mouth to Derek’s, hands gripping at his shoulders. When they pulled apart, they were both breathing heavily, Stiles’ pupils dilated. “Can we pick up from where we were interrupted this morning?” he breathed against Derek’s mouth.

“I don’t know,” Derek murmured, sliding a hand down Stiles’ stomach. “I’d rather just start from the beginning.”

Stiles tilted his head back, his laugh cutting into a groan. “Believe me - I’m so down with that.”

-

Sometime late in the night - or very early in the morning - Derek woke. It wasn’t the first time that night; his sleep was unusually restless, but there wasn’t much he could do about it so he did what he could do, shifting onto his other side, eyes half open. All of the candles had burned out except one, and in its guttering light he could follow the shape of Stiles’ side, the rise and fall of his chest. In his sleep-haze, it took Derek a moment to realize that Stiles’ breathing wasn’t steady, but rapid short bursts in and out - almost frantic. 

“Stiles?” Derek murmured, reaching out to touch his side; Stiles’ skin was warm and clammy, his body tense. “Hey,” Derek said, a little louder. He shook Stiles gently. “Stiles, you’re dreaming.”

Stiles inhaled sharply - and then exhaled in a long rush, his head twisting as he squinted blearily at Derek. 

“It’s all right,” Derek told him. “You were dreaming.”

“Oh,” Stiles sighed, and flipped over, worming his way against Derek’s chest, tucking his head under Derek’s chin. “Thanks,” he murmured, and fell back asleep almost instantly, his body relaxing against Derek’s. Derek rubbed his nose against Stiles’ temple as his own eyes began to drift shut, a stab of guilt hitting him as he scented the fear-sweat gathered there. Nightmare - or painful memories dredged up by the day’s conversations?

-

If Stiles remembered his nightmare the following morning, he didn’t mention it. Derek woke when he did, sometime in the mid-morning, with Stiles still pressed up against his side - which was odd, when he thought about it; he’d noticed that Stiles was a particularly restless sleeper. He certainly didn’t mind, though; waking up in bed with Stiles, in this apartment that seemed more like a home than his ever had, was quickly becoming his favorite part of the day.

Stiles idly trailed his fingers up Derek’s arm. “You awake?” he asked quietly.

Derek made a quiet noise of affirmation, taking a deep breath in, enjoying the lungful of Stiles’ scent he received. 

“Good,” Stiles said, stretching luxuriously. “You wanna take a shower with me?”

Derek exhaled in a rush. “Yeah,” he said wholeheartedly. 

Stiles, the corners of his mouth curving up, pushed himself up onto his elbows and leaned in to kiss Derek deeply. “Or,” he said lightly, when they pulled apart, “we could stay in bed. Y’know.”

“Can’t we do both?” Derek retorted. 

Stiles turned his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to give this a great deal of thought. “Hm,” he said finally. “Yeah, I guess it’s no skin off my back.” He grinned at Derek, who grinned back and reached out to catch Stiles by the back of the next, hauling him back in for another kiss.

Much later, after they’d made it out of bed and managed to get themselves cleaned up in the shower, they stood hip to hip in front of the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth. Derek felt a little self conscious seeing them side by side; he looked so….aggressive standing next to Stiles, his skin heavy with ink. Stiles’ skin was so smooth, unmarred by anything but the occasional mole or freckle. There was a cluster of freckles on one of his shoulders that Derek particularly liked to press his mouth to, but as Stiles turned to wipe his face on a washcloth, he saw a dark purple bruise on Stiles’ shoulder blade just below the cluster of freckles. Derek frowned at it. He couldn’t remember biting Stiles; their sex was not all that rough, mostly because he didn’t trust his control. As much he wanted to - because he wanted to - the most Derek ever did was graze Stiles’ skin with his teeth, never bite.

“Did I do that?” he asked.

“Do what?” Stiles replied, straightening.

“That bruise on your shoulder,” Derek told him, and Stiles contorted himself trying to see it. 

When he finally spotted it - using the mirror to help - Stiles’ eyes widened slightly, but then he shrugged and said, “I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Derek asked, brushing his fingers against it. “It kind of looks like a bite.”

“It’s not,” Stiles said shortly, shrugging off Derek’s touch. “I don’t know. I run into a lot of shit.”

“Okay,” Derek said, as ambivalently as possible, because Stiles was beginning to look irritated. Hoping that changing the subject might calm him down, he asked, “Did you talk to your friend about looking at those numbers today?”

“Lydia,” Stiles said, his expression clearing. “Yeah - she should be headed this way soon.”

“She’s another friend from the pack?” Derek asked, following Stiles out of the bathroom and back into his bedroom so they could get dressed. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I met her at the state school when I was a kid.”

“So she’s a shifter?” Derek asked. “A witch?”

“She...knows magic,” Stiles replied slowly, jerking a t-shirt over his head. “She’s a banshee.”

“A banshee?” Derek repeated, astounded. “I didn’t - they’re real?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, frowning. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Derek said, embarrassed. He hesitated, caught between wanting to tell Stiles about himself and shame for - for just about everything that had happened to him in life, but then he drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders resolutely. He could trust Stiles with this. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, looking a little uncertain. He sank down onto the end of the bed, watching Derek. 

Derek shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest and then dropping them to his sides. He heaved out a sigh; he could do this. “I told you I was raised human,” he said, and Stiles nodded. “The people who raised me weren’t my parents - they were my foster parents. My parents - my pack - “ He breathed in nervously, the words still hard to get out almost twenty years later. “ - they were murdered. Our house was set on fire by hunters.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, anxiously glancing at Stiles, whose mouth had dropped open.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathed, looking horrified. “Were they ever caught?”

“No,” Derek said. “The authorities think it was accidental.” He closed his eyes for a moment before he said, “But - the point is, my foster parents banned me from behaving like a wolf - from learning anything about my kind or this world. I don’t - I don’t know the things I should know. I don’t know how to control myself because I never had anyone to teach me.”

“Derek,” Stiles said quietly, refocusing his attention. He patted at the bed next to him, and after a moment of hesitation, Derek sat down next to him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel ignorant. It’s not just you, okay? You’re not the only one who grew up not knowing things. When I got sent to that school, we weren’t even supposed to talk about magic - they’d punish us if we did, and, well…” He offered his palm to Derek, his long fingers spread, and for the first time, Derek noticed the thin white lines of scars crisscrossing his palm. 

“When I got out of there, I had to teach myself everything - and I had to hide it from everyone. My dad was so scared of losing me, he would have killed me if he’d known. And it wasn’t just me - all my friends grew up knowing nothing. Scott never had an alpha; he had to teach himself control too.” Stiles reached over and put his hand over Derek’s, squeezing lightly. “So...you’re not alone, is what I’m saying, and if you want help, I’ll help you.”

Derek looked down at their hands, feeling a little overwhelmed by Stiles’ concern. “Thank you,” he said softly. 

Stiles squeezed his hand again, chewing at his bottom lip before he asked, “Is this why you were so upset that time you shifted when we were having sex?”

Derek winced at the memory. “I was upset because I hurt you,” he said unhappily. “I should know how to control myself by now.”

“I can help you with that too,” Stiles said. “I’ve got experience - I helped Scott learn.”

“Did he ever hurt you?”

“No,” Stiles admitted with a wry twist of his mouth. “But I did have to fend him off with a lacrosse stick one time.”

Derek snorted quietly. 

“The full moon’s soon, isn’t it?” Stiles asked. “Tomorrow?”

Derek nodded. 

“Do you want me to be there?”

Derek hesitated before replying; he wasn’t sure he was ready for Stiles to see him like that. “I’ll think about it,” he said carefully. 

“That’s fair,” Stiles nodded. “Don’t let me push you or anything.”

“Thank you,” Derek said again. The words didn’t feel like enough; no one had ever offered him the kind of support Stiles had.

Stiles gave him an encouraging smile, though his eyes were sad. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about what happened to your family.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Me too.”

Stiles shifted closer to him, and when he leaned in, he didn’t kiss Derek, but touched his forehead to his. Derek closed his eyes, exhaling slowly; this he could handle. For all the bad in his life - this...this was good.

They sat like that for so long Derek began to lose track of time, though he didn’t mind. He felt safe with Stiles, liked sharing his space. Neither of them moved until Stiles’ phone buzzed on his nightstand and Stiles pulled away with a sigh, stretching across the bed to check it. 

“Lydia’s here,” he said, straightening. “You want to do this? I can send her away.”

Stiles looked a little worried, but Derek shook his head. “This is important,” he said.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I think you’re right.”

They made their way down the stairs to Stiles’ office, though Derek hung back by the doorway as Stiles crossed the antique shop. He watched Stiles unlock the front door, his mouth twisting up in a wry grin. “Oh, hey,” he said. “The gang’s all here, huh?”

Derek raised his eyebrows as three women stepped into the shop; Malia was at the back, but in front of her came two women who seemed vaguely familiar - a petite redhead and a willowy brunette. The brunette smiled when she saw Derek, and he suddenly realized where he’d been them before; they’d both been in the shop the very first day he’d ever stepped foot inside, when he’d come to return Stiles’ journal. 

“All right,” Stiles said, “so, uh, guys, this is Derek. Derek - this is Allison and Lydia.” He pointed to the brunette and the redhead in turn. 

“Hi,” Derek said, feeling a little awkward. 

“Nice to see you again,” Allison said, shooting Stiles a smile. His cheeks went bright pink. 

Lydia gave Derek a cool look of appraisal; whatever she saw in him, she apparently approved, because she smiled faintly but didn’t speak, making her way to one of the armchairs. Derek caught a whiff of her scent as she passed: bright floral perfume and strong citrus on the surface, but underneath was an undertone of something cold like damp stone. It made his skin crawl. Banshee, Stiles had said. She definitely wasn’t wholly human.

“So,” Lydia said curtly, after they’d all sat down. “What’d you need?”

Stiles told her and Allison about the people who’d come after Malia, and the rumors Derek had heard. Allison frowned at the story, but Lydia didn’t react. “This - “ Stiles opened the file he’d left on the table and pulled out the paper Malia had taken off her last attacker. “ - is what we’ve got to go on. Any idea what those numbers might be?”

Lydia took the sheet and looked at it for a moment, then back up at Stiles, unimpressed. “This is what you called me down here for?”

“What?” Stiles said blankly. “You know what it is?”

“It’s an IP address,” Lydia sighed. “A website.”

“Seriously?” Stiles exclaimed, snatching the paper back and frowning down at it. “You sure it’s not a code?”

“It’s a website,” Lydia said decidedly. “I’m sure.”

“But I don’t have a computer,” Stiles said dejectedly. 

“Oh, I’ve got mine!” Allison offered brightly, picking her messenger bag up off the floor. She pulled a slim laptop from inside it. “Read me the address.”

“Wait,” Derek said, and they all turned to look at him. “Is this safe?”

“Yeah, the guy who had that address on him did try to kill me,” Malia pointed out. 

Allison looked to Stiles, who twisted his mouth to one side thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I mean, what could happen?”

“The site owner will know your IP address,” Lydia said. “Which means that if they wanted to find you, they can.”

“Uh, yeah, no,” Stiles said, looking alarmed. “Can we hide ourselves?”

“One option,” Lydia said, holding up a finger. “Access it from a public network - at Starbucks, or the library or something - “

“Kira would love that,” Malia murmured.

“Or two,” Lydia held up a second finger. “We use a VPN, which will bounce us through multiple servers, so we can’t be traced.”

“That one,” Stiles said immediately. “Let’s do that.”

Allison looked a little lost. “How - ?”

“Leave it to me,” Lydia said, gesturing for the laptop, which Allison handed over, relief on her face. Derek was a little startled by the fast-paced way decisions were being made, but then, they’d all known each other for years. They were used to working together - as a pack. It stung a little - not that they were a pack, but that Derek didn’t have one. He’d gone without one for so long that he’d mostly forgotten what it felt like, but he could see it in the friends in front of him; there was a connection there, unspoken and strong as steel. 

His gaze moved to Stiles, who was craning to watch Lydia work, a wistful look on his face. Maybe someday Stiles would introduce him to their mythic alpha Scott and someday, maybe Derek would be invited to join the pack. He’d like that, he realized with some surprise. He didn’t think about it most of the time - didn’t allow himself to think about it, really, because what decent alpha would want an ex-con in their pack - but he missed that bond. If he never found Laura, this pack wouldn’t be a bad second choice.

“There,” Lydia said, sitting back in the chair after a couple of minutes. “We’re good to go.”

“You sure?” Stiles asked, picking up the sheet of paper. Lydia nodded firmly. Stiles exhaled slowly and read out the string of numbers and periods.

Lydia carefully entered the address and then paused, her index finger hovering over the return key. “Last chance,” she said. “You’re sure you want to get involved in this?”

Stiles got to his feet, moving around so he could see the screen over the back of the chair. Derek did the same, and after a moment, so did Allison and Malia. Stiles exhaled again. “Do it.”

Lydia tapped the key and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the page background went white, and a simple message appeared in the center of the screen, just two lines of type. Enter Code, the first said, with a space following where type could be entered. The second said Join Pool, again with a place for type to be entered.

“Code?” Malia said sharply. “What’s the code?”

“Code,” Stiles murmured to himself. “Code, code - oh!” He waved the sheet of paper around. “This! Try this!” He showed Lydia the paper, pointing at the handwritten chain of numbers and letters. “I’ll bet you anything that’s it.” He grinned at Derek as Lydia typed. “Just like my dad - he can never remember his passwords, so he writes them down everywhere.”

Derek snorted softly, his eyes moving back to the screen as Lydia decisively hit the enter key. The page loaded almost instantly. At the top, it said Current Target, and below that - 

“Fuck!” Malia said furiously. “That’s me!”

Sure enough, a photograph of Malia glowered back at them from the screen. Below that was a plethora of information - her name, last known address, even her shifter status: werecoyote.

“That’s my photo from my driver’s license!” Malia snarled. “How’d they get that?”

“More importantly,” Allison said, “what is that?” She leaned forward, tapping her finger against the screen, where a line of type said Payout: $100,000.

They all stared at it. “Is that...what they’d get for killing her?” Lydia asked, her voice hushed. 

“That’s fucked up,” Malia said plaintively. “I’m worth two-fifty, at least.”

Stiles stood curiously silent, chewing at his bottom lip. “Stiles?” Derek prompted quietly, and Stiles looked at him, his brow furrowed. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m wondering how big this thing is,” Stiles said. “I mean - a hundred thousand dollars? For one kill? How many names are on this list? Who’s financing this thing? Even if there are only ten names on here, that’s still a million dollars - who has that kind of money?”

They all exchanged uneasy looks. 

“I can talk to my dad,” Allison said slowly. “He might be able to think of some players that big.”

“Maybe he’s heard something,” Stiles said thoughtfully, chewing at his lip. 

“Look,” Malia said impatiently. “Why don’t we just do it?”

“Do what?” Lydia asked. 

Malia jabbed her finger at the screen, where, at the very bottom of the page, sat a button labeled Submit Proof of Kill. “Kill me,” she said decisively. “See what happens next.”

They were quiet for a long moment. “I mean,” Stiles said weakly, “I could use a hundred grand.”

“What about the other option?” Lydia said. She hit the backspace button, bringing them back to the entry page. “Join the pool.”

Stiles frowned. “If it’s like a betting pool, then that’d be money you’d have to pay in, right? Try a hundred.”

They all watched Lydia type $100 and hit enter. Another line of type appeared below the second: Insufficient bid.

“Try five hundred,” Stiles said, his frown deepening.

Insufficient bid.

“A thousand?” Allison suggested.

Insufficient bid.

“Five thousand,” Lydia murmured, tapping away at the keys.

Insufficient bid.

No one had to prompt her again; she swiftly typed $10,000 and hit enter, and finally, the message changed: Enter Wire Transfer Number.

“So,” Stiles said slowly, “the floor to join is ten thousand dollars. That’s not a small amount of money.”

“If they’re organizing murders, then they’re targeting professionals,” Allison said.

Stiles looked at her sharply. “Like hunters?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “I’d guess contract killers, but hunters could fit the bill too. Dad could probably give us a better idea.”

“Ally’s family comes from a long line of hunters,” Stiles told Derek, catching the confusion on his face. “Her dad works for the government - regulation enforcement.”

“So he’s still a hunter,” Derek said coldly. 

“He doesn’t hurt people,” Allison said firmly. “But he’s got a lot of contacts. One of them has to have heard about this.”

“So what do we do?” Lydia asked. “Wait for more information?”

“Oh, come on!” Malia said. “They want people to play this game, so let’s play the game. They probably just want a picture - let’s make me look dead and see what happens.”

“I don’t think we should rush into this,” Allison said, looking worried. “We’re not trying to win this thing - we need to stop people from being killed.”

Stiles nodded absently, his eyes moving from the screen to their faces before finally landing on Derek. “What do you think?” 

He blinked, a little startled to be asked - they’d flown through decisions with such speed and familiarity that he hadn’t really expected to be included. Derek looked at the screen, at Malia’s photo glaring back at him, and thought. He thought about the phone call from Braeden, the pool worrying her enough that she’d called to make sure he was okay. He thought about the wendigo that had come after Malia, his arm twinging in sympathetic memory of his wounds. “I think we should come at it from both directions,” Derek said quietly. “The more we know, the better. Seeing it from the inside, and investigating it from the outside - I think that’s what we should do.”

“I agree,” Lydia said decisively. 

Malia clapped her hands together. “Let’s do it!” she said excitedly. “Let’s kill me!”

“You are way too excited about that,” Stiles said dismally. “I think we should wait until tonight, though - I doubt many killers are going to be doing this during the middle of the day.”

“That’ll give me time to talk to my dad,” Allison agreed, leaning down and plucking her laptop from Lydia’s lap. “You guys wanna grab lunch?”

“I should get going,” Derek said.

“Oh, Ally and Lydia can give you a ride,” Stiles said. “They live on your side of the city.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows as she rose from the armchair. “We’re not a taxi service, Stiles,” she said, but she smiled as she looked at Derek. “We’ll make an exception this time, though.”

“Oh,” Derek said. “Thanks.”

“You know Scott’s going to want to know about this,” Allison warned Stiles.

“I’ll call him,” Stiles nodded. He looked at Derek. “Let me know about tomorrow night, all right?”

Derek nodded, smiling faintly as Stiles blew him a kiss. He followed Allison and Lydia out of the shop and halfway down the block, where Allison unlocked the door to an expensive-looking SUV. Derek, feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, climbed into the back, while the two women sat in the front. He sat stiffly, hands folded politely in his lap, fully expecting some kind of grilling about his relationship with Stiles, but when Allison twisted around to look at him, all she asked was, “Do you want to have lunch with us?”

“Oh,” Derek said uncomfortably. “I - have to get ready for work. But thank you.”

“Okay,” Allison said easily, turning back around. “What’s your address?”

Derek told her, and for a few minutes, they drove in silence. Derek felt more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment, however; making small talk wasn’t something he was good at, and indeed, usually he actively avoided conversation with just about everyone, but these were Stiles’ friends, and he felt like he needed to make an effort with them - because what was important to Stiles was important to Derek. 

“Do you live together?” he asked cautiously.

Lydia laughed. “You could say that.”

Derek frowned, feeling a bit like he was being made fun of; Allison seemed to feel the same, because she said “Lydia,” in a reproachful tone. 

Lydia laughed again, warmer this time, and twisted to look at Derek. “We’re engaged,” she said, holding up her hand so Derek could see the ring on her finger. 

“Oh - congratulations,” Derek said.

“Thank you,” Lydia said politely, turning back to the front - but Derek saw the pleased smile she shot Allison’s way. “Stiles said you work at Viridi?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, a little startled - and a little flattered - Stiles had been talking about him. 

“That’s one of our favorite places,” Allison offered. “Boyd’s got great taste.”

“You know Boyd?” Derek asked, even more startled.

“He’s an old friend,” Lydia and Allison said as one; they both laughed. “He must have good taste if he hired you,” Lydia added, tossing him a wink. Derek felt his face warm, but he was pleased, too. 

“We’re thinking about having the dinner rehearsal there,” Allison told Derek, briefly making eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “Or maybe the wedding itself, if we can convince him to cater.”

Derek snorted quietly. “He’s got strong opinions about catering.”

“We know he does,” Lydia laughed. “But we’ve got a secret weapon.”

Derek raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

“Allison’s the one who introduced him to Erica,” Lydia told him. “He owes us.”

Derek shook his head wonderingly. “That might convince him.”

“It’ll be a small wedding anyway,” Allison said, waving her hand. “Most of my relatives don’t speak to me anymore anyway.”

“Because you joined a pack?” Derek asked, curious despite himself.

“That, and many other things,” Allison replied. She smiled. “I think our engagement was the final straw.”

Lydia clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t think your grandfather’s stopped spinning in his grave since you told them I was a banshee.”

“I know,” Allison said; she sounded delighted.

“I’m sorry if I was rude earlier, talking about your father,” Derek said to Allison, as she pulled up in front of his building.

She shrugged. “No apology necessary,” she said, putting the car into park. “I don’t blame you; if I weren’t human, I’d be just as cautious.” Allison turned in her seat so she could make full eye contact with Derek, her expression serious. “I used to think like the rest of my family - and my dad did, too - but living in Beacon Hills taught us that believing something because that’s what we’ve always believed isn’t right - and blood doesn’t make someone family.” She gave Lydia a small smile as she said this, which Lydia returned. 

“Stiles said you come from a long line of hunters,” Derek said slowly. “Old World?”

Allison nodded. “France. The Argents.”

Derek stared at her. “You’re an Argent?”

Allison nodded again, looking a little uncomfortable. “You’ve heard of us?”

“I’ve heard the name before,” Derek said slowly. He’d heard it, all right - from his mom, when he was a kid, and from Deucalion too, and then...Derek hesitated before admitting, “I’ve met one.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Allison said, looking worried. “Which one?”

“Kate,” Derek said quietly. She’d been the prosecutor at his trial, and it’d been obvious how much she despised his kind. The way she’d looked at him even when he wasn’t on the stand - the hate in her eyes made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to know how she’d reacted when she’d heard he’d been released; he’d seen her in the courthouse after his sentencing, and the open delight on her face had been bad enough. 

Allison winced. “She’s one of the worst - and my aunt, unfortunately. I’m sorry you had to meet her.”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. He shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since. Thanks for the ride,” he added, putting his hand on the door handle. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Allison said, smiling. “We’re only a few blocks away.”

 

WAIT if the gang knows Erica and Boyd, then Erica would know who Stiles was at the date at the restaurant. And Boyd wouldn’t have needed an introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic actually has my framework notes at the end, because I'd planned out enough and had enough scenes I didn't want to forget about, so I'm including that here:
> 
> > the wendigo wasn’t after Malia, he was after Stiles; Stiles’ photo in the magazine has put him on the list (the whole pack is on it now); Derek’s put on it after shifting in front of the wendigo - or Theo knows of him at the meeting  
> > four options for each confirmed kill; assassin gets to choose new target  
> > laura’s one of the options  
> >Malia: “I spent eight years stuck in the full shift.”  
> Derek: “That’s not possible - the full shift isn’t real.”  
> Malia, grimly: “In Beacon Hills it is.”  
> > stumbles across article about laura  
> > derek rushes to stiles, mccall is just leaving, stiles flustered [oh yeah did I forget to mention there was gonna be some BADWRONG offscreen stiles/mccall bc mccall is blackmailing him [threatening to report his shop/witchcraft in exchange for sex]]  
> > deuc’s gang set up derek > deuc knew talia, derek when he was a kid, “took him in” as an adult  
> > meet scott at some point?  
> > go to the farm, go to Derek’s family’s graves? or the house/both  
> > MAYBE THERE’S A MESSAGE FROM LAURA LEFT AT THE HOUSE SITE [it was gonna be hidden in a brick wall; they used to hide notes there when they were kids]  
> > years of letters to derek, their parents, etc  
> > phone number on every one, so they know how to call, no dates on letters so it takes  
> some time  
> > wiping rafe’s memory requires accessing his house to take the files related to stiles (or plant evidence to get him in trouble); discovery of other stuff related to missing folk?  
> > lori disappears, Brett comes looking for her  
> > dead pool is set up like a literal game of assassin? > page on body with url, key code, next target  
> > theo theo theo  
> > parents died mysteriously, leaving him flush with cash  
> > he’s funding pool  
> > Derek and Stiles get taken in for questioning at some point?  
> > Stiles bad dreams, screaming, neighbors call cops on them [this was one of the scenes I'd wanted to write and had in my head since DAY ONE of writing this fic]  
> > Derek losing control while they're having sex, Stiles telling him to focus on him, Derek finding his anchor  
> > magical folk whose kin go missing are dismissed by police because they’re magical  
> > stiles takes derek to a magic bar, dirty dancing ensues, maybe they get attacked on the way home? or at the club  
> > Derek asks Braeden what she knows about Theo  
> > killers are told to leave a specific mark - on the body or nearby  
> > maybe some part of the dead pool works for the police so they can confirm mark on scene and send the money transfer  
> > Stiles notices mark in the background of the photograph of Laura


End file.
